


Dear Friend

by sleeprettydarling



Series: Dear Friend Trilogy [1]
Category: Music RPF, The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Reincarnation, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:59:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 101,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1549718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeprettydarling/pseuds/sleeprettydarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When 14 year old Paul McCartney stumbles across a journal that allows him to rewrite any day and live it as he chooses, he writes for friendship, fame, money, and most importantly, the fate of John Lennon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few things before we get going here: 
> 
> This is my first time attempting a fic of this magnitude. It's likely to be extremely long, and I'm a very slow writer, but I'm in this for the long haul, so please be patient with me. 
> 
> Despite all the pairings listed (and others may pop up along the way), this story is absolutely centered on John and Paul's relationship, and it will remain the focus for the entirety of the fic. I just don't want to throw out all their other meaningful relationships throughout the years, since those largely affect who they are as people, and how they perceive each other. 
> 
> As mentioned in the tags, this fic incorporates some supernatural elements (no unicorns, though, I'm sorry), so naturally some canon divergence is to be expected. I've also changed some small details to suit the narrative when necessary, though I hope it's nothing too jarring. I've done a lot of heavy research, but I don't expect this to be perfect by any means. My lovely beta (and cheerleader) nowherewoman has been a massive help with catching some of these errors (and rounding up the escaped commas), but any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Also, regarding the Major Character Death warning: I want to say that this is not meant to be (nor will it become) a post-1980 grief fic. So, not to say, "Don't let that scare you away, it's not what you think," but that's basically what I'm saying. Don't let that scare you away. It's not what you think. 
> 
> I think that's it! Please enjoy, and leave some feedback, if you're so inclined.

The sky was a deep grey by the time Paul got off the bus, the clouds visibly rolling across the horizon, hanging low and dark with the ominous promise of rain.  The wind had picked up considerably since he'd left home, whistling through the sparse trees and carrying the cool scent of the coming storm.  Paul pulled his jacket more tightly around himself and ducked his head against the breeze.  He didn't come this way often, but the street already felt as familiar as Forthlin Road – the cracks and dips in the pavement, the section of the walkway where a bit of tree root had fought its way to the surface. 

He'd followed this path for the first time four months prior – _four months, two weeks, and three days_ , a voice in his head reminded him; a voice that refused to let him forget.  At that time, his eyes had been so clouded over with unshed tears that he could barely see where he was going, and he'd held on to the back of his father's jacket like a baby.  He'd tripped over the root, and while it didn't bring him to the ground, it knocked the freestanding tears from his eyes.  After that, all he could remember was staring at his newly scuffed shoes against the dry, faded grass, listening to his father sob. 

Paul shook the memory from his head, letting himself through the iron gate that marked the entrance to the Yew Tree Cemetery.  Thunder rumbled nearby, and the world seemed to shake with it, the naked tree limbs rattling against each other overhead.  Time seemed to stand still here; Paul rarely encountered other visitors, and there was something eerily comforting about being surrounded by vast stretches of graves, some affectionately adorned with flowers and letters.  This was a place for the dead, yet it was filled with love.  His mum would have liked that. 

Paul's heart twisted in his chest.  He'd crushed the urge to cry a long time ago.  It felt wrong, somehow.  His dad cried a lot these days, and a part of Paul's childhood seemed to die a little each time.  Someone had to be strong, someone had to look out for Mike, give him even the slimmest ray of hope.  Someone had to pretend everything was going to be okay.  If his dad were no longer capable of that, then it seemed only natural for the responsibility to fall on Paul's shoulders, which meant he didn't have the luxury of crying or feeling sorry for himself. 

Here, though, it was different.  As he walked the familiar path to his mother's grave, he could already feel the beginnings of tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.  It was probably counterproductive to come all this way, knowing it would stir back up the emotions that he'd tried so hard to suppress, but every now and then he'd _need_ it.  It didn't accomplish much – he barely allowed the tears to actually fall, even here.  When they did, though, he didn't feel any better.  He'd simply spend an hour or two, sitting before her grave with his chin on his knees, staring at her name permanently etched in the stone. 

He could lose himself in memories here – memories that he was growing increasingly afraid of losing.  Surrounded by the silence and the distant twittering of birds, Paul could let his mind wander.  He grasped for any shred of time he spent with his mother, locking it all away in a box in his mind, where he could keep it forever.  He wondered, sometimes, if he ever knew her at all.  His memories were all such superficial things; her welcoming him home from school, tucking him in at night, making lunches and trying to get him speak the proper Queen's English.  He remembered, more clearly than anything else, laughing at her for that, the subtle look of hurt that tightened her pretty face. 

As her grave came into view, Paul noticed something in the grass nearby.  He never brought flowers, never left any indication he'd dropped by at all – no one knew he came, not even his dad or Mike.  As far as Paul was aware, they never visited either.  Her grave was always humbly unadorned; such a small, unassuming marker for a woman who'd had more depth and life than Paul would ever know.

Paul quickened his steps, trotting the rest of the distance, the wind whipping his hair into a messy, wayward nest.  He could nearly imagine her tutting him, combing his fringe back into place with her fingernails, and his throat tightened.  His dad didn't care about that sort of thing; didn't take the time to wipe the dirt from Paul's face when he played too rough.  Those days were far behind him.

It was a book of some kind, Paul noticed when he reached the grave.  It had been placed just close enough to look like it belonged there, though far enough away that it could have been dropped by accident.  There were no markings on the cover that Paul could see; it was thick and compact, bound simply in black leather. 

He picked it up, carefully wiping away the dirt with the sleeve of his jacket.  It occurred to him that someone else may have stopped by – an old school friend of his mother's, maybe – and left behind a book of memories.  His heart quickened at the thought.  If he could know her even a little bit better, maybe he'd be able to sleep at night; maybe the pain that still coursed through his chest would finally begin to dull. 

Unconsciously, he held his breath as he flipped the book open.  It was a journal, as he'd suspected, and it opened quickly and easily, as if it had been well loved, the spine used and broken.

But it was empty. 

Paul's brow knitted in confusion as he thumbed through the pages.  There were many of them, hundreds maybe; all blank, pristine, stirring up the smell of fresh paper as Paul flipped through them. 

For a moment, he could only stare.  The journal's clean, white pages stared back at him, fluttering innocently in the breeze, turning on their own accord.  He should have known better; _of course_ no one would take the time to write out all the answers to the questions he didn't know how to voice, conveniently leaving it here for him to find.  Life didn't work that way, he _knew_ that, but…

He couldn't help the disappointment.  The _anger_. 

He slammed it closed, the slap of leather against paper satisfyingly loud, stirring a few nearby birds from their perches in the trees.  And then he threw it, as hard as he could, yelling out in frustration and exertion.  The journal sailed from his hand, though it didn't go far, smacking into a grave on the next row and landing on the ground with a dull thump, the front cover falling open. 

Paul couldn't read it from his current distance, but the smudge of ink was unmistakable.  Something had been written on the inside cover.  It shouldn't have intrigued him, it shouldn't have mattered at all, but Paul found himself approaching the journal once more, again lifting it from the ground with a careful reverence. 

 _'To you,_ ' it said, written in delicate script.  ' _Life is short. Live each day as you want_.' 

Paul traced his fingers carefully over the words, taking in the feeling of the pen strokes that formed each letter.  Someone had written this, had wanted it to be found.  That mattered, for some abstract reason, and though Paul probably wasn't the intended recipient, he couldn't help but feel connected to it.  It was as if the mere fact that it had been dropped by his mother's grave meant it was for him.

From her. 

Still, it felt something like stealing when Paul glanced around the empty cemetery, and then tucked the thick little book into the back of his trousers.  Someone had to take it, he rationalized, or the coming storm would ruin it anyway.  Better him than no one at all. 

He returned to his mother's grave and sat, the journal all but leaving his mind as he lost himself in memories.  He stayed there, unmoving, until the first drops of rain landed on his face.  The sky had grown darker, and he could hear the rain falling heavier in the distance, gradually becoming a deafening static as it approached.  He pulled the back of his jacket over his head and ran toward the bus stop, his makeshift tent of leather more or less protecting him from the sudden shower. 

He was soaked from the waist down by the time he boarded the first of the two buses that would take him home.  It was blessedly vacant, due to the weather and the hour, and Paul collapsed into a seat.  He scrubbed his hands through his dampened hair, shaking out any excess water.  The seat was hard and uncomfortable, like he was sitting on a rock the size of his hand, and Paul shifted irritably until he finally remembered.

The journal. 

He pulled it out from the waist of his trousers, gazing at it in the dim grey light.  Now that he had it, he wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to _do_ with it.  He couldn't think of anything more queer than keeping a diary – he laughed bitterly at himself, ashamed the thought had even crossed his mind.  No, he'd use it for schoolwork or something.  Something normal. 

He couldn't quite decide what 'normal' entailed, so when he returned home, the journal ended up on his shelf.  There was nothing suspicious or shameful about it – it was just an empty journal, after all, and he hadn't even technically stolen it – but seeing it sitting there among the classics his mother had given him seemed somewhat wrong.  It would be like hiding his drawings of naked girls behind his mum's photograph in the parlor; perhaps not on the same, perverse level, but it gave Paul an impossible to ignore sense of unease regardless. 

So he pulled the journal down and tucked it between his knees, pulling out his books two and three at a time to make room.  He hadn't touched most of them in years – or ever – and they stirred up a small cloud of dust as he worked, causing his nose to run and his head to ache.  With the books pulled forward, he'd managed to make a clearing behind them just big enough for him to tuck the journal away on its side.  Satisfied, he slid the novels back into place. 

***

It would be months before he touched the journal again.  He moved on with his life, nearly forgetting about its existence entirely.  If he hadn't been so excited, so full pent up energy the night following the Woolton garden fete, he may never have remembered it at all. 

He had gotten home late, letting himself into the darkened house with the utmost care, shutting the door as quietly as he could.  The fact that his dad hadn't waited up for him meant that he was probably in trouble – Paul had no idea what time it was, but Jim McCartney had a habit of staying up until ungodly hours waiting for his sons.  If he'd given up and gone to bed, Paul was likely to get it from him in the morning. 

That hardly mattered.  Paul's smile was so broad that his cheeks ached, and he crept up to his room as quietly as he could.  It was hard not to run – he was stuck between the mixed feelings of wanting to run around the block until he couldn't breathe, and wanting to fall over on his bed, bury his face in his pillow, and laugh.  It was likely the alcohol in his system messing with his head, making him bite his lip like a schoolgirl to stifle his giggles; it was a wonder that he made it to his room without waking anyone. 

He was restless, pacing around his room like a caged tiger.  He couldn't possibly sleep after the day he'd had, even though he had every reason to be completely exhausted.  He just needed to _tell_ someone, was all. 

The memory of the journal came to him like a lighthouse beacon in a storm, and his eyes locked on the bookshelf.  A part of him still balked at the thought of keeping a diary, but… No one had to know. Besides, writing his feelings down would be a lot less embarrassing than sitting down and telling someone – telling _George_ , probably.  They had met a few years ago on a bus to the Liverpool Institute, and once they discovered their shared love of music, they had rapidly become close friends.  Despite their age difference, Paul trusted him more than anyone else. 

Even so, he could imagine the look on George's face, imagine how silly it would seem to sit down and say, "let me tell you about this boy I met."  For as understanding as George could be, there would never be a way to tell it that would make George understand.  He would never let Paul live it down. 

After double-checking that he'd locked the door, Paul freed the journal from the shelf.  It had been long enough now that the dust had settled back into place. Paul wiped it away with the tails of his shirt as he made his way to the bed, grabbing a pen from his desk in the process.

He settled against his pillow, leaning back on the wall and bending his legs, opening the journal against his knees.  His enthusiasm faltered, just slightly, when he faced the first crisp, blank page.  He twisted the pen between his fingers.  How was he supposed to do this?  No one was ever going to see it, he reminded himself, chanting the words in his head like a mantra.  He jotted down the date, just to make himself write something.  From there, the words slowly began to flow.   

> _6 July 1957_
> 
> _Today was the garden fete of St Peter's Church.  I went along with my friend Ivan, who was particularly excited about going.  I mightn't've gone at all if he hadn't been so keen on it.  He had me bring my guitar along too, 'just in case' he said, and we ended up sitting a while in the grass near the church playing a few songs._
> 
> _The fete itself was all right – a bit boring, but we managed to entertain ourselves a bit with the games and sideshows.  We watched the Rose Queen get her crown, and afterward, I began to notice this great music drifting from the Tannoy system.  Ivan told me it was the band he sometimes played the tea-chest bass for._

 "Come on, then," Ivan said.  He led Paul through the crowd, grinning.  "I've been wanting you to meet the fellas for ages now." 

True, he'd mentioned to Paul a couple of times that he should come see them play, and it while it wasn't like Paul was unsupportive, he just – he just didn't think they'd actually be _good_.  The sound was rough and tinny through the sound system, but he could hear the talent there, hear it in the smooth, almost nasally purr of the lead singer's voice. 

They made their way to the band, which was performing on a humble lorry.  The singer, though – the _singer_ – he caught Paul's attention immediately.  He looked so at home there, so free and charming that he might as well be on a grand stage.  Paul stared at him in awe; he was the only one with any real talent, that much was clear now.  His appearance didn't hurt, either.  Something about him was just so _cool._  Even sweated down and disheveled, his red and white checked shirt rumpled, the collar unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up unevenly, he looked like a star. 

He grinned tiredly over the microphone, his lips curling into a cocky little smirk as sweat dripped down his forehead.  He was clearly putting all his energy into his performance, and that was just it – he was the only one who was truly _performing_.  He moved to the music, his whole body thrown into the strumming of his guitar, playing it as if it were a part of himself, tossing his head and commanding attention.  He was in his own little world, a world in which he was the only person that mattered, and it showed. The others, meanwhile, simply stood there, playing their instruments dutifully.  They were squinting against the sun and looking around the fete, as if planning what they wanted to do next. 

Paul leaned toward Ivan at the same time that Ivan nudged him and asked, "What d'you think, then?"

"Who's that one?" was all Paul could say in return, and Ivan laughed.  Paul hadn't even pointed, hadn't done much of anything to indicate who he was talking about, but Ivan seemed to know anyway.

"That's John Lennon.  Good, isn't he?" 

> _He was good.  Really good.  And bad all at once, I suppose, given that his guitar was tuned all wrong and I reckon he was playing banjo chords instead.  They started playing a song called 'Come Go With Me', and he didn't even know the words except for the chorus, but that didn't make a difference.  It worked for him, and the others followed right along as if he'd done nothing wrong.  I reckon he's the only person in the world who could get away with that, make it seem like he knows exactly what he's doing and have us all believe it._

When the band finished, climbing gracelessly from the lorry and ambling toward the church hall, Paul turned to Ivan.  His guitar was growing heavy on his back, sweat making his shirt stick to his skin, and the desire to follow the Quarrymen inside was as much about getting out of the sweltering heat as it was to meet them.  

"Going after them, then?" he asked. 

"I figured we would," Ivan said.  "They need some new talent anyroad.  John's really stuck on his friends, y'see, and I reckon he needs to meet someone who can really play if he wants to get anywhere." 

Paul opened his mouth to object – he'd never even thought about being in a band.  That was more his dad's thing; Paul just played for fun, to escape.  Doing it seriously might ruin the enjoyment. 

Despite himself, Paul wordlessly followed Ivan across the road and into the church hall.  The band was already there, of course, setting up equipment while John looked on, leaning casually against the wall and drinking a beer.  He had an unlit cigarette behind his ear, a towel around his neck to soak up the sweat.  His head jerked when the door fell closed, his eyes landing on Paul and Ivan in an instant; he pushed off from the wall in one smooth movement, standing tall and regal as a bird of prey.  He squinted down his nose at them. 

"Oi, John," Ivan called.  He gestured to Paul.  "I've brought someone I want you to meet." 

John moved closer, and Paul couldn't push the bird imagery from his mind; it was if he were circling them like a hawk, slowly descending as he moved in for the kill.  The others had stopped to watch, and Paul couldn't help but feel a little nervous.  And then, once he was close enough for Paul to feel the remnants of the afternoon heat radiating from him, John grinned.  It wasn't necessarily a welcoming one – the way his lips curled slyly reminded Paul vaguely of a cat, approachable and potentially dangerous all at once.     

"Ivan," John greeted simply.  "Who's this, then?"  It was then that he focused on Paul, his eyes narrow and unreadable, darkened with what seemed to be a haze of judgment.  His irises seemed nearly black in the shadow of his heavy eyelids.  Paul shifted awkwardly, unnerved.  John pulled the cigarette from behind his ear and lit it with casual slowness as Ivan made the introductions.

"Paul McCartney, a mate from school." 

John stuck out a hand and, after a short second of hesitation, Paul grasped it firmly.  John's hand was big and warm, enveloping Paul's own, and the handshake was more of a brief, tight squeeze.  John cocked his head, smiling a little brighter.

" _'tis an absolute pleasure_ ," he crooned, his voice gone smarmy, his accent thicker.  "Sir Paul McCharmly." 

Paul chuckled awkwardly and pulled his hand away, tucking it in his pocket.  The lingering ghost of John's fingers curled tightly around his own followed it there, his hand thrumming with the loss of sensation.

"Pleasure's mine," he returned, though it came out more formally than he had intended.  John snorted a laugh, taking a step back and puffing on his cigarette.    

Ivan introduced the others – Eric Griffiths, Rod Davies, Pete Shotton, Len Garry, and Colin Hanton (who was just on his way out, and offered a quick "hello, goodbye") – though Paul, despite his best attempts, found himself unable to keep track of who was who.  During the middle of the introductions, John had begun to walk around him in slow circles, as if sizing him up, pushing smoke out his nostrils as he hummed theatrically.  Paul tried his best to ignore him – though his eyes followed John whenever he stepped back into view – tried to make the proper greetings when necessary, but curiosity won out in the end. 

"What're you circling me for?"

"Can you play?" John asked.  He plucked at a string on Paul's guitar, the vibration buzzing across his back.  "Or is this part of the outfit?" 

"I play a bit," Paul admitted, swinging his guitar around to the front. 

" _A bit_ ," Ivan scoffed.  "He's a right professional, he is.  Show 'em, Paul." 

Paul's fingers moved to the frets and John barked out a laugh, turning to the others.  " _Professional_ , says Ivan.  Can't even hold it properly."  The others laughed on cue, and Paul shrugged off the creeping feeling of embarrassment. 

"Least it's in tune," he said calmly, and John's bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise.  Paul grinned at him in a way that he hoped indicated a lack of malice.  John, for his part, didn't look terribly offended; he almost looked vaguely impressed, but maybe Paul was reading too much into the slight quirk of his lips, the way he raised his beer in a mock salute before taking a drink.     

Confidence boosted, Paul began the opening chords to the Cochran tune he'd learned awhile back, his fingers moving easily over the strings.  He'd chosen it because he knew the lyrics – all of them – and he hadn't quite expected the room to go silent, the others stopping their setup process to come over and listen.

> _They must've been impressed, because no one said a word the whole time I played.  They let me get through all of Twenty Flight Rock, and then Be-Bop-a-Lula, and a few bits of Little Richard songs before John stopped me.  I thought I'd messed up, but then he said he thought I was good, which meant a lot from him.  Ivan left us for a bit to return to the fete, probably to find a bird for the evening, which left me with the band._

 While the others finished setting up, John led him to a backstage area.  Paul trailed behind him without question, intrigued by the somewhat hesitant way John had glanced around before gesturing for him to follow. 

 It was a cramped space, an old piano shoved into the corner, the rickety stool in front of it providing the only place to sit.  A thin shaft of sunlight poured in from a narrow, stain glass window.  It painted the room in soft greens and yellows, highlighting the dust motes that floated gently through the air, swirling ever upward.  Paul looked to John.  He seemed more approachable in this light; the sunlight catching in his eyes and making them glow a soft, honey brown.  He was already making himself comfortable on the floor, guitar in his lap.  His earlier hesitation seemed to be all but gone, and he strummed his guitar casually, looking up at Paul.

"Wanna jam a bit?" he asked, innocent as a schoolboy.  Charmed, Paul nodded, taking a seat on the piano stool.  How he could go from rock and roll star, to arrogant jokester, to almost childlike all within a matter of minutes was mindboggling.

Paul started to ask why John had led him all the way back here for something as simple as this, but what came out instead was, "What do you want to play?" 

John shrugged.  "Nothing.  Anything."  He seemed distracted, almost, looking pointedly at Paul's guitar.  Without another word, he began to play.  Paul couldn't tell if the song was made up or not, but it had a good beat, and Paul nodded along with it as he waited for an opportunity to jump in, his eyes fluttering closed. 

The song seemed to take on a life of its own once Paul joined, going from quick, lively skiffle beats to something slower, almost a ballad, before picking back up again.  John would fall back every now and then, letting Paul take the lead, alternating like a conversation.  It almost felt like one, in a strange way.  Paul's eyes slid open to gaze at John.  The other boy's eyes were shut tight, his lower lip between his teeth as he rocked his body into his guitar, taking on that suave, otherworldly aura he'd had back on the lorry.  Paul smiled at him softly – it felt like they were pouring their hearts out to each other, honest and open, without even the pretense of words.  John loved his music, his guitar, and Paul could feel it flowing from him in waves; warm and passionate, carrying a hint of nostalgia, like memories of home, the smell of fresh biscuits on a rainy day.

Still, he couldn't help but notice the faulty tuning.  He'd only mentioned it earlier to even out the playing field, but with both of their guitars playing in unison, it was strikingly obvious.  It wasn't _bad –_ the notes he played rang loud and true, but there was something off about them, as if he hadn't tuned it with another guitar at all. 

Paul hadn't realized he'd stopped playing until John's music tapered off as well, and he blinked up at Paul.  "Problem?" he asked, a slightly disappointed edge to his voice. 

Paul shook his head.  "No, it's just…  You really are a little out of tune, mate," he ventured.  It felt like something of a risky move, despite the comfortable atmosphere the music had built around them – like telling a king his crown was on backward. 

John sighed loudly, thumbing across the strings in frustration.  He glared down at his guitar as if it had personally offended him.  "Right, that.  't's why I brought you back here, actually." 

"It's not bad," Paul said kindly.  He felt a little guilty knowing that his comment had bothered John so much, though it made his earlier shyness somewhat endearing.  "It's not – y'know – offensively off or anything."

Placated, John grinned. "I tuned it with me mum's banjo." 

Paul nodded, as if he understood the ins and outs of this – he didn't, really.  But the problem made sense in his head, and it seemed easy enough to fix.  "That explains it, then.  I used to take guitar lessons," he said, almost as a peace offering.  "I could show you how to tune it properly, if you'd like.  It's 'bout all I learned before I gave it up." 

John nodded, jerking his head to beckon Paul closer.  Paul slid from the piano stool and onto his knees, shuffling over to John's little corner.  The look of hesitation was back on John's face, his eyes a little wider and glancing toward the door over Paul's shoulder.  Paul wanted to tell him that it wasn't a big deal, not to worry, but he understood.  It would look terrible for the band to come in and find their fearless leader being taught something as simple as tuning.

Paul sat down in front of him, cross-legged, their knees barely touching.  "Okay, so," Paul whispered, and a brief, grateful look crossed John's face.  "Just try to match mine."  He plucked the first string, the clear, low E ringing out in the small space. 

John was a little slow, twisting the tuning peg carefully, his head bent down and eyes closed as he listened to the sound.  His expression was soft, serene almost; his pinched lips the only sign of concentration.  Paul was inexplicably entranced by him.  John gave off such a tough vibe; he was a leader, arrogant and in control, but he looked almost fragile suddenly, soft and delicate in ways that Paul wouldn't have thought possible even just a few minutes ago.  The light from the stained glass seemed to paint his skin, highlighting the sharp angles of his nose and cheekbones, the pouty curve of his narrow lips.  His eyelashes were long, Paul noticed; faintly auburn like his hair, which had taken on an orange tint in the dim light. 

Then those eyes were open, looking right at him expectantly.  Paul jerked back, startled. 

John smirked.  "Where's your mind gone?"

Paul's mouth fell open, but no words came out.  There was nothing he could say to explain himself, and he looked away in embarrassment, focusing intently on the old, dirty grain of the wood floors.  "Nowhere.  Just thinking." 

"Dangerous hobby, that." 

"It's gotten me into trouble on occasion," Paul admitted, grinning.

"Oh, ho!  I've ended up with a bad influence on me hands, whatever will dear mummy think?" 

Paul flinched as if he'd been struck.  It still hurt, like scraping off a scab: sometimes he could forget he was wounded, but then he'd start to bleed again, pain rising to the surface at even the smallest reminder.  It was so stupid, too – of course other people would talk about their mothers, Paul couldn't expect them not to.  He was the only unfortunate sod without one.   

John's expression changed, softening into a look somewhere between confusion and pity, all trace of humor gone.  _Don't ask_ , Paul wanted to beg, searching John's eyes pleadingly.  _Please don't ask_. 

"Play that again, would you," John said simply, looking back to his guitar. 

It took a moment for Paul's brain to register the command, and when it did, he hastily plucked at the E again.  John played his in return, looking at Paul seriously, waiting for feedback.  Paul smiled, grateful for the distraction, the quiet understanding.  "Good.  That's good.  That'll probably stay in tune for awhile, being the thickest string and all, so…"  He adjusted his hand, pressing down behind the fifth fret on the E.  "This is an A," he told him, plucking it.  "So strum these two strings and tune your A until it matches." 

John narrowed his eyes, squinting at Paul's fingers before he grumbled, "hang on."  He patted down his pockets, procuring a pair of thick glasses.  He slid them on, ducking his head a little as if it would block Paul's view.

"Didn't mention you were blind," Paul teased.  John's head jerked up, his mouth falling open.  There was a brief moment of terror in which Paul thought he was going to get it, that he'd gone too far and John was about to tear him apart and leave him to rot. 

"Didn't mention you looked like a little girl, _Paulie_ ," John shot back instead, holding Paul's gaze challengingly.  The smile they shared lingered a little too long, and Paul broke it off with a laugh, glancing away.  He could still feel the weight of John's stare, studying him intently.  Paul hesitantly met John's eyes again, which were darting over Paul's face as if seeing him for the first time. 

 Judging by John's expression, Paul realized, that was probably close to the truth. 

"How old are you?" John asked seriously, his brows knitted in concern.    

"Er – fifteen."  When John pursed his lips, Paul went on quickly, "You look good, by the way.  In those." He gestured to the glasses.  "Like Buddy Holly." 

John snorted, seemingly appeased.  He looked back to his guitar and copied what Paul had shown him, strumming the two strings together. 

Paul let out a breath, his hands shaking slightly when he gripped his guitar.  He could tell John was older; by how much he wasn't sure, but he'd already grown attached enough that he didn't want something as simple as age to drive a wedge between them.  He knew it was weird – there was a part of him that still felt weird hanging out with George, still looked down on him though he'd proven himself time and time again to be more than an equal.  Paul just have to prove himself to John, that was all – though it did seem he was already doing something right. 

The progress was slow at first, with Paul carefully explaining the tuning technique he had learned until John picked up on the pattern.  He finally tuned the last three strings with little input from Paul, looking back up with a boyish grin.

"Not so hard, really," John said, as if he'd been the one explaining it in the first place.  He leaned back against the wall, taking a long drink of his beer.  He removed his glasses and stuck them back in his pocket, then resumed strumming his guitar, clearly pleased by the sound.  He glanced up at Paul, a soft smile still pulling at his lips.  "Ta."    

Paul shrugged off the thanks, setting his guitar aside.  "So," he said casually, leaning back on his hands, "am I a pretty girl, at least?"

John blinked at him, a wicked grin spreading across his face.  "Hardly.  You look like my dear auntie, you unfortunate lass."  

"And here was I, thinking that was the reason you led me off."  The words came out unbidden, and there was a moment in which Paul wished he could take them back, snatch them out of the air before they reached John's ears.  But then John was laughing, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut.  Paul felt a swelling rush of pride that warmed his cheeks, and he smiled widely.

"Ah, but I'm the attractive one, y'said so yourself."  John lifted his eyebrows suggestively.  "It's why you followed me, innit?"

"Only with the specs," Paul rebutted.  "You're a right ugly thing without them."  He shot forward without quite thinking about it, dipping his fingers into John's breast pocket and fishing out the glasses before John could utter a coherent protest.  He unfolded them quickly and slid them onto John's face, his knuckles grazing the warm, soft skin along his cheekbones.  His movements slowed as he gently tucked the glasses into place behind John's ears, fingers sliding away through the short, silky strands of hair at the base of his head.

"There," Paul breathed.  Their faces were close – too close.  Paul could feel John's hot breath puffing against his chin; he could see the flecks of hazel in his widened eyes, magnified by the glasses, which gazed up at Paul in wonderment.  "Just like Buddy Holly." 

John's lips were parted, shifting soundlessly as if searching for something to say.  The two of them seemed frozen there, Paul's hands resting against the heated skin at the base of John's neck, John's pulse thrumming against his palm.  John sucked in a shaky breath, his tongue darting out to dampen his lips, and Paul's eyes flicked downward to follow the motion.  He hardly realized he was holding his breath, something excited and fuzzy curling in his stomach, making his heart stutter and his chest go tight. 

When he met John's eyes again, they had narrowed, John's eyebrows knitted close, making him look somewhere between pensive and desperately sad.  Paul didn't realize he was gravitating closer until his nose bumped John's, making the other boy's eyelids flutter, his face tilting minutely toward Paul's.  His breath smelled strongly of beer and cigarettes, and Paul's mouth tingled with craving – for a smoke, he thought, or maybe it was something else.  His fingers twitched against John's neck, curling into the hairs there.  Something in Paul was screaming, desperate for some end that he didn't know how to attain, his heart pounding with near sickening speed. 

He choked out a laugh over the lump his throat, jerking away from John and swallowing thickly.  His hands were trembling, sweaty, and he wiped them frantically on his thighs.  He tried to look anywhere but at John as he dug in his pocket for a cigarette, focusing on evening out his rapid breaths, his chest aching as if he'd been running. 

As he lit up, sucking in a relieving breath of smoke, he watched John from the corner of his eye.  John curled forward on himself to rest his elbows on his knees, breathing out a weak little laugh of his own, his head in his hands. 

"Right," John said tightly.  "Don't touch those."  He removed the glasses, tucking them back into his pocket with the utmost care, focused intently on his task.

"Sorry," Paul whispered.  He spread his fingers against his jeans; the way they continued to shake made him feel sick and uneasy.  Clenching his fists to hide the movement, he pushed off the floor, staggering gracelessly back to the piano stool.  The light, fluttery excitement from mere moments ago had grown thick and heavy, like a rock clogging up his insides. 

He reached blindly for his guitar, only to realize he'd left it on the floor, right beside John's folded legs.  John was staring up at him, his expression hard and unreadable, his own guitar back in place.  Paul felt like he should excuse his behavior somehow, or just do _something_ to bring back the comfortable atmosphere from before.  There were no words for it, not when Paul himself couldn't explain the shift in mood – maybe John was aware of that, too.  When John started to strum his guitar, the notes were soft, soothing, as if to say something neither of them had words for. 

Paul turned to the piano, lifting his trembling fingers to the keys.  He followed along like before, his nerves fading away as the music flowed through him.  It was easier this way, with his back to John, though he was near certain he could feel John's gaze burning into him.  He didn't dare look over his shoulder to check. 

The melody picked up pace and Paul followed along as best he could; it felt more like a race than a conversation this time – if they were communicating at all, it was more like they were yelling over each other in short sentences, increasingly loud and fast.  Paul's sweaty fingers slipped over the keys, drifting over a sour note every now and then, though he couldn't bring himself to care.  It was therapeutic, like standing outside and screaming into the sky.  Paul lost himself in it, banging on the keys with growing fervor. 

He heard John chuckle, and Paul couldn't help but respond with a quiet laugh of his own.  They barely matched each other now, the tiny room filled with a discordant jumble of sounds, loud and unrefined. 

John slowed down a little, falling into a song from the radio that Paul recognized but couldn't quite put his finger on.  Paul backed him for a moment, always a beat behind despite his best attempts.  Not to be outdone, he switched songs, throwing himself into 'A Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On'.  If it tripped John up even for a moment, Paul would consider that a victory.    

He noticed a stutter in John's playing and a smirk curled onto Paul's lips, but it wasn't until he felt a presence behind him that he realized John had stopped playing along entirely.  Paul's entire body seized up in panic, his cigarette falling from his lips and his fingers going stiff against the keys, missing the shift to the upper octaves.  John leaned over him, his chest pressing against Paul's shoulder.  He joined in as seamlessly as if they'd practiced this a million times, his right hand reaching around to catch the notes before the rhythm was lost entirely. 

It took all of Paul's willpower to keep his left hand moving along the keys, his eyes sliding closed as John's beery breath splashed hot and moist against his cheek.  He could feel John's heart pounding against his back, and the feeling returned, like flying.  Paul lost himself to the sensation, his nerves humming in delight. 

John began to sing along softly, his smooth voice right next to Paul's ear.  It was all at once soft as velvet and heavy as a blanket, wrapping itself around him and filling him with warmth.  He sounded so much better like this, up close, the vibrations of his voice travelling straight to Paul's spine.  The tinny little sound system hadn't done him justice at all – he was brilliant, unbelievably so, and Paul decided in that moment that he'd never heard a voice he liked more.  He would never be able to listen to Jerry Lewis's version again – it would forever fall flat in comparison to this.  Paul never wanted to forget the sound of John's voice purring out the lyrics in his ear. 

When the song ended, John stayed put, leaning over Paul's back.  He was warm, the curve of his body fitting snug and perfect along Paul's spine.  Paul could feel him breathing, deep and steady, trying to catch his breath without being too obvious about it. 

"Didn't think you'd know that one," Paul said finally, voice low.  He didn't have the nerve to turn his head, staring intently down at the keys. 

John snorted.  "I listen to the radio, Paulie."  Paul's face flushed at the nickname, the one John had used earlier as his girl name, and he bit back a smile.  Whatever had happened on the floor hadn't ruined them; it was like John was trying to show him that.  Paul was silently grateful for it. 

John straightened, and it was only then that Paul realized he had been leaning back against him.  His balance was thrown and he jerked backward, his heart leaping into his throat in alarm, his body tensing in anticipation of hitting the floor.  Two strong hands landed on his shoulders instead, holding him tight, fingertips digging in almost painfully.

"Steady on," John chided softly.  Paul leaned his head back against John's chest, shifting to see his face, and John smirked down at him.  "This has been nice and all, but the lads and I've got to rehearse for our evening gig."

"Oh."  Paul sat up properly and John's hands slid away.  He felt stupid for being so disappointed; his emotions were frayed and confused, and he was exhausted, his head aching from switching so rapidly from one feeling to another.  It was a problem caused uniquely by John, who Paul was beginning to think of as a hurricane; wild and dangerous with a clear bit of calm in the center, if only one could fight through the storm to reach it.  Paul thought he should be relieved to get a break from him, but the idea of parting so soon was distinctly disappointing. 

"I should probably catch up with Ivan anyroad," he said.  He turned to face John, who had already slung his guitar across his back and was lighting up a cigarette.  He waved out the match and tossed it aside. 

He stared thoughtfully at Paul for a long moment, smoking. "You can come back after, if you want," he said finally, the words coming out on a hazy breath.  "Show's at eight.  I reckon we'll be going to a pub or something afterward." 

Paul wanted to point out that they wouldn't be allowed to get anything at a pub – John couldn't be over 18, Paul was certain – but he was nodding his agreement before he even thought it through.  He was invited, that was all that mattered.  Even if they got thrown out, at least John wanted him there.    

> _I found Ivan back outside, chatting up a bird who seemed grateful for my interruption.  We stuck around until the evening show and watched the band play again, and I noticed that John had tuned the other guitar in the group since the last show.  The sounded better, and John was as suave as ever.  He's the only one I remember watching._
> 
> _We met up afterward and went to a Woolton pub.  John and the others must've lied about their ages to get served, but they did it so smoothly that no one would ever suspect them.  He ordered a drink for me when he realized I wasn't going to do it myself, didn't believe I was content to just sit there and talk.  (He was mostly right)._
> 
> _I'm lucky dad didn't lock me out, but I'm probably going to be in trouble in the morning.  I don't care.  This was the best day I've had in a long time, and I wouldn't trade it.  I just hope I get to have another one sometime soon, spend more time playing guitars with John, get to know him a bit better.  I think we could be good friends._

Paul lifted his hand from the journal, watching with detached interest as the ink dried rapidly on the page, losing its sheen.  His words were smeared from his left hand tiredly dragging across the page as he wrote.  That was okay, Paul decided.  If it was harder to read, that made it less incriminating. 

He stifled a yawn in his fist, closing the journal with a heavy sigh.  His hand was sore and there was ink smudged on it, like evidence of a crime, but Paul was suddenly too tired to care.  His eyelids had grown heavy, and each time he blinked, it felt like he'd never open them again.  Moving to the bookshelf was out of the question, so he shoved the journal under his mattress and collapsed against his pillow.  He fell asleep that way, fully dressed, his hand dangling off the bed and the pen lost somewhere in the sheets. 

That night, he dreamed of music, of thousands of screaming girls who all knew his name. 

He dreamed of John, smiling at him from the other side of a shared microphone, hot breath puffing against his face, their lips barely brushing as their voices melded into one.  

***

The following week passed in agonizing slowness.  Paul didn't hear anything from John, or Ivan, or anyone he'd met at the fete.  By the end of the first week, he'd begun to worry that he had imagined John's fondness of him, that knocking around backstage for a few minutes hadn't meant much at all. 

He hadn't been able to get John out of his head.  He'd spent the days following the fete reliving their time together in his head, closing his eyes and remembering the feeling of John's chest against his back, John's voice in his ear.  He thought of the way John's eyes had locked with his own, mere centimeters away, clear and shining and lovely, with those hooded eyelids and delicately curved eyelashes.  He thought of the way they'd played together, how it seemed like the most natural feeling in the world.  He craved that more than anything else, like nicotine; like that telling sensation was in the back of his head, making his fingers itch and his lips tremble. 

He still had George to jam with, of course, but it wasn't the same.  George talked through it, planning and smiling.  He'd come by the day after the fete to show off how he'd taught himself all of Elvis's 'All Shook Up', and he'd gone over it and over it, breaking it into smaller sections, showing Paul the parts that had given him trouble, the parts he thought he was particularly good at.  That was fine, helpful even; Paul had learned most of the song himself by the time George left.

But it hadn't felt the same.  It wasn't as easy as breathing, a tentative exploration of each other that culminated in a deep, close understanding.  It was fun, but it wasn't _intimate._  

By the following Monday, Paul decided he was tired of lying around like a heartbroken girl (Mike's words, not his) and reminded himself that, sometimes, the only way to get something accomplished was to do it himself. 

He telephoned Ivan, and was somewhat surprised when he answered right away.  At least Paul wasn't the only one wasting his summer days at home.  Then Ivan asked him what he wanted, and Paul realized he hadn't quite formed a plan.  What _did_ he want?  He wanted to see John again, make sure everything was okay; that he hadn't gotten on his bad side somehow, hadn't said something wrong.  He just wanted to see him again, for whatever reason, but he couldn't exactly say that. 

"Paul?" Ivan prompted.  "You there?" 

"Yeah, I – I was just wondering if you've heard from John."  _Good_ , he told himself.  _That was good, very casual._

There was an extended silence, just long enough for Paul to begin to worry that he hadn't sounded so casual after all, and that Ivan had set the phone down to laugh at him.  Paul raked a hand through his hair nervously.  How had some guy he barely knew manage to become so important? 

"Listen, Paul," Ivan said carefully.  "You're kind of – young, is all, y'know?  And John, he's serious about this, and he has this look he's going for.  And you, well, you look younger than you are anyway, with that face of yours, so…"

"Got it," Paul interrupted stiffly.  "I understand."  He _didn't_ understand, not one bit, because if Ivan knew all of this, why did he bring Paul along in the first place?  Why was he so keen on getting Paul's hopes up when he knew John wouldn't like him anyway? 

As if reading his mind, Ivan said, "Look, he likes you, okay?  John does.  Maybe in a year or two…" he trailed off, sighing.  "I'm sorry, all right?  I thought he'd let you in on talent alone." 

"Never mind," Paul said.  "Doesn't matter."  His hand was shaking on the receiver, clutching it so tightly he could hear the plastic shifting beneath his fingers.  He wanted to scream into the phone that it wasn't about the band, _it was never about the fucking band_ , but if Ivan couldn't see that then there was no use in explaining it. 

"I'll talk to him."

"Don't.  It doesn't matter."  The last thing he wanted was for Ivan to get his hopes up again.  John clearly had more important things to worry about than some too-young girly boy he'd met.  In a flash, he remembered the way John had looked at him through his glasses; his eyes wide and unguarded, lips parted and shining damply, the way he'd shifted subtly closer.

Paul shook his head to clear it; he wasn't acting like himself, wasn't _thinking_ like himself.  It was one thing to want to make music with someone, but he shouldn't have been so concerned with the warmth of John's eyes and the softness of his voice, the underlying vulnerable shyness Paul had caught a glimpse of in that moment on the floor.  John was an enigma; a deep, dark box of secrets, and Paul wanted to dig all the way to the bottom to see what he could find.  There was something beautiful buried beneath the surface, and Paul wanted to be the only one to hold it in his hands and actually _see_ it. 

None of that mattered.  It didn't matter to John, so why should it matter to him? 

"I've got to go.  Thanks anyway." 

He hung up before he heard Ivan's reply, and tried to remember what he did with his life before he became obsessed with John Lennon.

***

Paul spent the next week with George, all but living at his house.  Paul slept over a few times, but he largely preferred the comfort of his own bed, primarily since that didn't involve waking up during the night with George's foot in his face.  He'd take a bus to Speke around midmorning and walk the rest of the way to George's, where they'd play their guitars all day and often into the night.  It was a comfortable routine, one that slowly, surely began to take his mind off what he'd begun to call his "John Problem."  If John didn't want him because of his age, then fine.  It wasn't like the Quarrymen were going anywhere fast. 

By the time his eyes opened on Friday morning, John had nearly faded to a vague, pleasant memory.  There was, and probably always would be, a part of Paul that hoped to see him again, but that part of him had fallen dormant.  He was too distracted now with the freedom of summer and spending time with George. 

He just arrived at the bus stop when he heard an unfamiliar voice calling his name.  Paul looked around in confusion, spotting a boy with bright blond hair running over to him.  Paul's mind was, for a moment, completely blank.

"Glad I bumped into you," the boy said.  "I was just on my way to yours." 

Paul stared at him blankly.  He looked familiar, sort of, though for a moment Paul couldn't figure out why.   He envisioned him suddenly with a washboard, standing next to John, and _oh_.  Paul bristled in a moment of sheer, petty jealously – he remembered this boy in particular, remembered thinking that he was the biggest waste of space in the whole band, yet he had a free pass simply because he was close to John – literally.  He'd hovered by John's side all evening after the show, practically clinging to him by the time they reached the pub.  Words like 'inseparable' and 'best mates' had been mockingly thrown their way a few times, and while Paul had been too high on adrenaline at the time to think much of it, the memory made his skin crawl. 

"Okay," Paul offered flatly.  It was hard not to sneer.  "Who're you, again?"

The boy actually looked offended, straightening to his full height, his arms folded across his chest.  "Pete Shotton," he said.  "Of the _Quarrymen_."  He said it with a pompous little lilt that made Paul, who prided himself on being particularly nonviolent, want to knock his teeth out.      

He sucked in a breath to calm himself.  "What d'you want, then?" 

"John and I've decided you'd be an asset."

The angry haze lifted at the sound of John's name, and Paul blinked at him rapidly, trying to make sense of what Pete had said.  "An… an asset?"

Pete rolled his eyes impatiently.  "To the _band_." 

Paul gaped at him – he couldn't help himself.  Two weeks.  Nearly two whole weeks without a single word, and _now_ John sends someone after him?  He wanted to be annoyed, even angry, but they way his heart sped up in his chest kept him from feeling anything but vague excitement.  He looked away, staring determinedly in the direction the bus should come from, the beginnings of a small smile dancing at the corners of his lips.  "I dunno if I want to be in a band," he said truthfully. 

He heard Pete groan, and Paul smirked at the small rush of power it gave him.  After waiting for so long, he couldn't just appear the second John asked it of him.  If this was some kind of twisted power play, Paul was determined to come out on top. 

"You practically auditioned for us," Pete pointed out. 

"Nah.  Just showing off." 

"Well." Pete's voice carried a sudden air of derision, and maybe a little awe.  "If you _do_ decide to grace a band with your presence, we've a spot for you." 

Paul was grateful now that he'd looked away when he did; the smile on his face would have ruined the nonchalant act.  "All right." 

"There's a get-together tonight, at mine.  Whether you join or not, John wanted me to tell you to come." 

 _That_ caught Paul's attention more than anything.  He turned sharply, studying Pete's face for a hint of dishonesty.  Pete's expression, however, was flat, maybe a little bored, but otherwise unreadable. 

"I'll think about it," Paul said slowly. 

"Right.  Good."  Pete dug a rumpled napkin out of his pocket and scribbled the address on it, pressing it into Paul's hand.  Then he was off, waving over his shoulder. 

Paul was determined to spend the rest of the day not thinking about it, to enjoy his day with George and not get sucked back into the vortex that was John Lennon.  His mind continued to drift, tantalized by the offer; if he went to Pete's, John would be there.  It was that simple. 

The address seemed to burn in his pocket, distracting him for the rest of the afternoon.  He'd barely been at George's for three hours and the napkin was already beginning to feel like it might disintegrate from the amount of times he'd slipped his hand into his pocket to make sure it was still there.  He might have even pulled it out and looked at it if George weren't right in front of him. 

"Something on your mind?" George asked finally.  He was sitting in front of the window, dwarfed by his guitar, staring at Paul in that insightful way of his.  He looked so concerned that Paul almost felt a little guilty for thinking other thoughts, for having what felt like secret plans.

"No!" Paul exclaimed, though the enthusiasm in his voice sounded painfully forced, even to his own ears.  George lifted an eyebrow, frowning.  "No, it's just… I'm a little tired, is all."

"Oh."  George squinted up at the clock, pursing his lips.  The sun was still shining in on his shoulders, but George was like that – pretending it was later than it was, that the time had slipped away from him, just to make whoever he was with feel more comfortable.  "We've been at it a while, I s'pose.  Fingers are getting a little sore, actually."     

Paul blinked at him.  "You – want to quit early, then?"

"Might as well." 

Paul's eyes darted to the clock.  If he left now, he could make it to Pete's in time.  He'd already come to terms with showing up late, but…  Getting there on time was invaluable.  It meant more time with John. 

Their goodbyes were awkward and rushed, George sending him off with a solemn, knowing look.  Paul couldn't meet his eyes as he turned away, but he was almost too excited to feel completely horrible.  He saw George all the time, after all.  This was special. 

At least, that's what Paul kept telling himself.  It served well enough to keep the guilt at bay.  

***

 The get-together, as it turned out, was little more than drinks, cigarettes, a little disjointed music, and a lot of John standing on the table and making increasingly wild declarations of their soon-to-come fame.  That's where he was when Paul arrived, ushered in by Pete.  Eric, Colin, Rod, Len, and Ivan were already there, lounging around the smoky room with beers in hand, cheering drunkenly as John finished his speech. 

 John hopped down, staggering and clutching Ivan's shoulder for support, giggling wildly.  He looked exhausted; his carefully styled hair was drooping sadly, a few wayward strands hanging in his face, a forgotten cigarette dangling between his fingers.  The white t-shirt he had on was rumpled, already damp under the arms and the middle of his chest, making it nearly transparent where it clung to him.  Paul's heart sped up just the same, and he was hit with a burst of nerves – over the past two weeks, his mind had downplayed John's charisma, his looks and charm and magnetism.  Seeing him again was like a breath of fresh air after being under water for too long, and Paul's head felt light. 

It'd be easier if they were alone, as Paul suddenly doubted his ability to hold John's attention over six other people.  John had fallen into what looked to be a serious conversation with Ivan, still holding his shoulder as Paul made his approach.  Ivan noticed him first.

"Paul!" he called, waving.  John's head jerked up, following Ivan's gaze.  "Glad you made it!"

"Knew he'd show," John said.  He pushed away from Ivan, sauntering over.  He was drunk enough that his grasp of personal space seemed to be long forgotten, leaning into Paul's shoulder, his head dipping close.  He smelled pungently of sweat, booze, and cigarettes, along with what may have been the lingering scent of perfume.  Paul instantly envisioned John's sweat-slicked back tangled between some pretty bird's legs, and his heart constricted, his hands going clammy.   

"John," he greeted quietly, nodding.  He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, just for something to do with his hands, and John produced a flame for him in an instant.  Paul leaned into it gratefully, gazing down at the way John's fingers grasped the lighter, his thick, squarish thumb going white against the button. 

"Paul," he responded, smiling softly.  He shut the lighter with a flick of his wrist, tucking it back into his pocket.  _God_ , Paul had missed him, and he was dying to say so.  John studied him for a moment longer, his expression somewhat distant and serious, before breaking into a crooked grin.  He ruffled Paul's hair roughly.  "Good to see you see again." 

Paul clenched his jaw, his hands raising to try to salvage his hair.  John laughed loudly, and while Paul wanted to tell him off, let him know that his hair was off fucking limits, he found himself giggling softly in return.

"You need a beer, son," John said jovially.  Paul couldn't agree more.

From that moment on, it seemed, John went out of his way to keep a drink in Paul's hand, appearing out of nowhere as soon as one ran dry.  Paul would laugh and accept it each time, catching John's wrist and making him stay a moment before he inevitably drifted off again.

Paul spent most of the night with Ivan as a result, though he couldn't help but follow John with his eyes.  It seemed that John couldn't stay in one place for very long; as soon as he appeared to get settled somewhere, either with his mouth organ or deep in conversation, it would only take a moment for him to get bored and find something new to entertain himself with.  Every now and then, this would result in him clambering back onto the table with a new announcement, his balance growing shakier each time. From where he sat, Paul wouldn't be able to do a thing if John fell, but that didn't stop him from leaning forward anyway, hands out as if to catch him.

"Lads and ladies," John slurred drunkenly, spreading his arms.  He had a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and Paul was beginning to think they looked rather natural there.  "Tomorrow night's practice will be at none other than me dear mum's house, and I expect all ya pansies to be there, or–"

He was interrupted by a loud groan.  "C'mon, John!" Colin called.  "It's a right pain in the arse to move my kit that far, and you know it!" 

That seemed to sober John up instantly, his jaw shutting tightly.  He straightened his spine, his shoulders rolling back.  "Shut your bloody mouth," he yelled back.  "It's already been fuckin' decided!"

Colin, who had been sitting at the table, pushed himself to his feet, his chair clattering to the floor.  He stared up at John challengingly.  "I expect you'll help me move my drums, then?" 

Something shifted in John's eyes, making him look almost feral, even from Paul's distance.  Paul glanced around nervously, though no one was making much of a move to do anything.  Only Pete had gotten up from the couch, slowly moving toward the table.

"Johnny," Pete started, gently.  John's glare remained locked Colin.

"I expect you to fuckin' grow a pair," John said, eerily calm.  Then he stretched out his arm in one quick movement, sloshing the beer over Colin's head and bringing the bottle down sharply, smashing it against his skull. 

The room seemed to erupt in a flurry of movement and yelling after that.  Colin was swearing loudly and wiping the blood angrily from his forehead, trying to haul himself onto the table.  Pete had already made it over and was pulling John's arm, guiding him down and saying gently, "come on, Johnny, don't, _don't_."  Rod moved over to help Colin, who had slipped to the floor dazedly, cradling his head in his hands. 

No one else, Paul noticed, made to confront John.

A hand on his arm captured his attention, and Paul looked over to see Ivan smiling at him gently.  "Don't worry.  This happens sometimes, it's not – it's just fuckin' John, y'know?  You'll get used to it." 

Paul wasn't sure what bothered him more: Ivan's words, or the fact that John was huddled in a corner with Pete, Pete whispering to him and shaking his shoulders gently, massaging his fingers into his muscles.  Paul couldn't hear their conversation over the commotion or Colin's muffled sobs, but John was nodding softly, biting at his lip. 

"He always smashes bottles on people who don't agree with him?" Paul asked distractedly.  He couldn't picture it, even though he'd just seen it happen.  The John he'd met in the church hall was so much different; soft and vulnerable, dangerous without the immediate threat of violence.        

"Well, er – no," Ivan admitted.  "It's not like this, usually, he just – he has a lot going on, y'know?  He gets angry, he can't help it."  After a pause, he added, "he doesn't even live with his parents, his dad fucked off somewhere.  Lives with his auntie, he does.  Lost his uncle a while back.  He's been worse since then."  Ivan had shifted his gaze to look at John, his expression softening.  "You just gotta love him, y'know?  We all do." 

Paul watched John approach Colin, staggering drunkenly.  He could barely hear the whispered "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," as John knelt before Colin, holding his face in his hands and stroking it gently with his fingers.  He stayed there a moment and they murmured to each other softly.  Patting Colin's cheek one last time and dropping a kiss on the top of his head, John stood up, climbing once more onto the table.   The room fell silent in an instant, John commanding their attention without even saying a word. 

"Slight change of plans, lads," John said quietly.  He shoved his hands into his pockets, looking like a scolded schoolboy.  "Tomorrow night will be at Colin's."  Paul noticed Pete nodding encouragingly in the corner and felt a surge of disgust.  He rubbed his hands over his arms as if to physically push the feeling away. 

No cheers followed John's announcement this time; a heavy, uncomfortable silence still hung over the room.  John pursed his lips, searching each face with a heavy gaze.  He sighed noisily.  "Bunch of bleedin' pansies," he muttered.  Then, loudly, "Where are we goin', fellas?" 

There was a beat, then a slight giggle from Colin.  "To the top, Johnny!" the group called back in unison, while Paul looked on in bafflement. 

"And where's that, fellas?"

"To the toppermost of the poppermost!"

"Right!" John cheered.  Just like that, the mood was lifted, everyone talking and laughing again.  John hopped back down from the table with a smug grin, lighting up a new cigarette. 

It was that, Paul realized, that made him want to stay; made him want to be a part of this.  He felt suddenly like an outsider looking in on something warm, something happy and _good_ , as he sat there laughing awkwardly at some inside joke that he didn't understand.  He didn't want to be on the outside anymore.  He wanted to belong – with the Quarrymen, and with John.  

He hadn't meant to say anything about it; he planned on making them wait until he got back from Scout camp as payback.  At some point during the night, however, he found himself huddled up next to John on the couch.  He'd originally scooted so close to make room for the others, as everyone had decided they wanted to sit there at once.  They'd all since wandered away, leaving him and John alone.  Paul hadn't had the will or inclination to move, and apparently John didn't either, his arm draped casually over Paul's shoulder as he rattled off some impossible success dream.  Paul was laughing drunkenly into John's neck, barely understanding the words – all he knew was that sounded possible.  Coming from John, anything did. 

Despite the stifling body heat trapped between them, the closeness was comfortable.  Paul almost wanted to fall asleep there, with John's heart beating softly against his cheek.  He might have done it, if he hadn't been afraid John would be gone by the time he woke up.  He fisted the front of John's shirt, dragging him down to whisper in his ear.

"'m a part of this," Paul told him, slurring the words against John's hair.  "I'm going to the top – toppermost – with you, Johnny, okay?" 

John's arm tightened around him, dragging Paul closer and crushing him to his side.  "''Course you are, son," he said softly.  "'Course you are."     

***

When Paul arrived at Colin's the following night, most of the band was already there – plus one new face, who John introduced as Nigel Whalley.  "Our esteemed manager," John said in a posh voice, bowing down with an elaborate hand gesture. 

Paul introduced himself, sticking out his hand, which Nigel shook with obvious reluctance.  Despite his wide and friendly smile, Nigel shot a meaningful little look to John, which clearly said, ' _let's step aside for a moment, I don't think this is such a good idea._ '  John, for his part, avoided Nigel's gaze entirely, grinning broadly at Paul before leading him off to join the others. 

After that, though, Paul found he couldn't quite catch John's eye.  John was always busy, always doing something, tuning his guitar again and again (using Paul's method, he noticed with a small burst of pride).  Once they got started, Paul noticed John watching his hands, but he seemed completely unwilling to look up.  It was more frustrating than it should have been.  Paul directed his attention to Nigel, who was watching him with pursed lips and folded arms.  The negativity only made Paul play better, louder – if the manager didn't want him, if something happened and John was having second thoughts, Paul would just have to prove that he was still an asset.  Pete was the only one to offer any encouragement, shooting Paul little, friendly grins when their eyes happened to meet. 

Still, Paul found himself feeling increasingly self-conscious with the lack of attention from John.  If something had gone wrong, he needed to know about it.  He was so distracted that he snapped a string during the middle of 'Blue Suede Shoes', bringing the practice to an impromptu break. 

Paul sat down on the floor to tend to his string while the others cleared out, either heading outside for a smoke break or scouring the kitchen for any food Mrs Hanton had set out for them.  John was the last to leave, only because Nigel stopped him in the doorway. 

"I really need to speak with you," Nigel hissed, clutching John's elbow.  He was moving to lead John off down the hallway, but John remained rooted in place.  He lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed. 

"If you've something to say, say it right here," John told him.  He shook out of Nigel's grasp and threw himself heavily onto the couch across the room from Paul, kicking up his feet on the armrest.

Nigel met John's challenging gaze with surprising calm.  He straightened, tossing his head.  "Fine," he sniffed, gesturing to Paul.  "I think you should have consulted me before adding someone to the band, is all.  There're enough of you as it is.  You've _three_ guitar players now, what good is that?" 

Paul waited for John's reluctant agreement, or an argument – _anything_.  John, however, simply sat there, gazing calmly at Paul as he finished his cigarette.  Nigel huffed impatiently.

"Did you hear me, Lennon?" 

"He looks like Elvis," John said finally.  "I dig him." 

Paul felt his face grow hot and he quickly looked away, busying himself with tuning the new string.  Nigel merely sighed in response, throwing up his hands and excusing himself, muttering something about not knowing why he tried.  Paul looked back up at John once they were alone, and it seemed John's eyes had never left him; his expression was soft and distant, as if he were looking through Paul instead of at him. 

"Elvis and Buddy Holly," Paul said, just to break the silence.  He laughed quietly, strumming his guitar.  "Fuckin' dream team, that." 

John returned the smile, raising his beer in a mock-salute.   "We've got them beat, obviously." 

"Obviously," Paul returned, if only for the sake of saying something.  John's unwavering gaze was starting to make him feel uncomfortable in his own skin, his fingers itching for a cigarette.  He'd spent all evening trying to get John to look at him, and now that he had his undivided attention, he didn't know what to do with it.  He shifted, setting his guitar aside and standing, in hopes that the movement would free him from the hot weight of John's stare. 

It didn't.

"Only if you want to be in a band, that is," John said finally, a sharp edge to his tone. 

Paul, who had been stretching his back, looked to John curiously.  "What d'you mean?" 

John shrugged.  "Pete said you weren't that interested, s'all." 

"I'm interested."  Paul moved to join John on the couch, and John shifted his legs to make room, bending his knees.  Paul sat down next to his socked feet.  "I didn't – I dunno, I didn't think I'd have fun with it, but it's all right." 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." 

John laughed, kicking at Paul's side a little too roughly.  Paul gripped John's knee for balance, clutching his sore ribs, winded.  Still, John's smile was infectious, and Paul found himself smiling back.  In an instant, it all seemed to make sense, all the little pieces clicking together, and Paul frowned.  "Wait," he said gently.  "Were you – you think I didn't mean it?" 

John blinked at him innocently.  "Mean what?" 

"That I wanted to be a part of this." 

John rubbed a hand over his forehead, sighing.  Once again, he refused to meet Paul's eyes, and his silence said more than enough.  Whether it was a fear of abandonment or an actual attachment to Paul, it seemed that John didn't want him to go.  Paul's chest constricted with a sudden burst of affection.  "Hey," he grinned, nudging his shoulder against John's legs.  "I'm in this until you look me in the eyes and tell me I'm out, yeah?" 

It was probably too soon to be making promises like that, especially since he was only half a practice into this.  But he meant it.  He'd go anywhere John wanted him to, do anything – even if John wasn't attached, Paul couldn't imagine going back to the way his life had been before. 

John met his eyes, studying him for a moment as if he were reading Paul's mind.  The softness from the church hall was back, and Paul desperately wished that their position would allow them to get closer.  John's face was so far away, blocked off by the wall of his legs, near impossible to reach.  What he needed to reach it for, though, Paul wasn't sure.  He didn't explore the thought any further. 

John's expression changed in an instant, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.  He started kicking at Paul hard, the blows knocking him closer and closer to the edge.  Paul bit back a yell of surprise and swatted uselessly at John's feet, the onslaught too much to be fought off with hands alone.  Paul pushed himself up and slammed himself against John's legs in a desperate attempt to be pin them down, fighting for balance and laughing until his sides hurt.  John's own face was scrunched up with laughter, his cheeks a blotchy pink, as Paul clung to his shoulders for stability.  They wrestled each other onto the floor, hitting it hard enough to rattle the delicate glassware that adorned the shelves.

Paul's back hit the floor with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs, and he stared up at the ceiling dazedly.  John was laughing into his shoulder, his breath hot and moist on Paul's neck, and he was hit with the same feeling he'd had in the church hall; that feeling of warmth, of belonging, that everything was absolutely right in the world and he was exactly where he was supposed to be.  John's weight on top of him was a strangely comfortable one, despite making his lungs feel tight and empty.  He reached up, fisting the material of John's leather jacket, just at the sides, as if to hold him in place. 

As John's laughter subsided, however, he didn't seem to have any intention of moving.  His body settled into the curves of Paul's own, filling in the spaces like water in a canyon.  Paul slid a hand up to the back of John's head, sliding his fingers through his hair and holding him still.  John sighed contentedly, nosing against Paul's neck, and Paul's eyes slid closed in pleasure.  It didn't matter that this was only his third time seeing John; they were meant to be in each other's lives.  This feeling of absolute peace couldn't come from physical closeness with anyone else. 

"Cozying up with our resident pit bull, I see," came a voice, and John jerked away so quickly that Paul was surprised by the sudden rush of cold.  Eric stood in the doorway, beer in hand.  He gave Paul a pointed look – one that wasn't entirely friendly.  "Careful, he bites."

"Fuck off, Griffiths," John snarled.  He stood, smoothing out his clothes, and Paul sheepishly pushed himself to his feet as well, avoiding John's gaze.  It wasn't a difficult task, since John was looking at everything but him. 

He felt somewhat isolated as he moved back to his guitar, the front of him cold and empty where John was supposed to be.  Then they began to play, and John shot him a grin, holding his gaze.  Paul smiled back broadly.  Whatever happened, they were okay.  Maybe even better than ever.  It felt, strangely, as if they'd known each other for a million years.  Paul knew almost nothing about him, but his smile cancelled out all the judgmental stares. 

It was late by the time they finished up.  While Colin extended the invitation for them to stay the night, John immediately declined. 

"'m going to me mum's," he said quietly, sliding on his jacket.  Paul remembered, suddenly, that her house was where John wanted to hold the practice originally.  He felt a strange sort of sympathy; a kind of understanding.  Even though John's mother was still alive, he didn't get to see her all the time, and Paul was painfully familiar with the distant look on John's face. 

"I've got to get home, too," Paul announced.  There wasn't any real reason; his dad was fully expecting him to spend the night at George's again, but he'd feel out of place without John.  Without Ivan around, Paul didn't feel like he knew any of them well enough to feel comfortable staying. 

His comment seemed to land mostly on deaf ears.  Pete was the only one to raise his hand in a halfhearted farewell as Paul followed John out the door.

"They don't like me much, do they?" Paul asked, his guitar case thumping against his leg as he walked. 

John shot him something of a dirty look.  "What d'you mean?" 

Paul shrugged, deciding it'd be better to let it go.  Ivan had warned him that John was stuck on his friends being in the band, and it was beginning to seem as though he was defensive of them in every respect. 

The tension seemed to leave John almost as quickly as it had come.  "Give them time," he said, lighting up a cigarette.  "Anyway, I like you." 

Paul opened his mouth to say, ' _I like you, too_ ,' but quickly dismissed it.  "Thanks." 

John seemed to find that funny, and his laugh was clear and light in the nighttime silence.  He turned up the collar of jacket to protect his neck from the cool breeze that had rolled in.  With his glasses on and cigarette dangling between his lips, he once again mesmerized Paul.  He looked young and old all at once; timeless and ethereal, a real rock n' roll star plucked straight from a magazine and placed on a darkened road in Liverpool. 

"Which way are you going?" John asked, turning to look at him.  Paul came back to himself enough to realize they'd reached a crossroad. 

"Uh – Allerton."

John simply nodded and led the way to the bus stop, Paul following along at his side.  The silence that fell over them was a comfortable one.  As they stood on the curb waiting for the bus, Paul leaned in, letting his elbow touch John's.  He hadn't quite realized he'd done it until he felt the hard point of bone and leather pressing against his arm, but it was oddly thrilling when John didn't move away.

"Thanks," Paul blurted.  John looked at him curiously, plucking his cigarette from his lips. 

"Hmm?"

"For, y'know, giving me a chance.  I know I'm too young, but–"

"Shut up, Paulie."  John took a slow, deliberate drag on his cigarette, staring up at the sky as he exhaled.  "You're not bad."  He turned his attention back to Paul's face, studying him with that all-knowing intensity that Paul found both thrilling and nerve-wracking.  "When I said you'd be an asset, I wasn't entirely lying." 

"Not entirely?" Paul echoed. 

"There's some room from improvement, 'course.  Dunno if you'll ever live up to my standards, son."

Paul snorted, shoving his elbow into John's side.  "I dunno, I think I can offer a bit of competition." 

"For Griffiths, maybe," John said darkly.  He tossed down his cigarette and rubbed it out under the heel of his boot.  It just took a second, but he was already completely closed off, hands shoved into his pockets and shadows obscuring his eyes.       

"Right, of course."  Paul sighed.  "Listen, John, I'm not here to try and take your place.  I want to be in this band _with_ you, not instead of."  Frankly, the band wouldn't have appealed to him at all if John weren't in it, but he thought it better not to mention that. 

"The tuning thing," Paul went on, "that doesn't matter.  You've already got it down, anyroad.  You're a better performer than I'll ever be.  I don't think I'd ever be able to go on stage like you do."

John laughed, leaning back against Paul's arm, reestablishing their connection.  "You will.  Not like me, but you'll go on stage.  Got no choice now." 

The bus pulled up and they boarded it together – John dozing off against the window and Paul against John's shoulder.  They remained that way until they parted, walking off in opposite directions.   

When Paul got home, he was hit with the same overwhelming urge he'd felt on the day he'd met John, and he went straight to the bookshelf to retrieve the journal.  It already felt natural, like something he'd done for years, even though this was only the second time.  He settled himself on his bed and wrote until his hand cramped, spelling out every detail exactly how it had happened. 

As he reached the end, he was writing without thinking, his eyes attempting to slide closed as he finished off his entry. 

> _I want to be his best friend.  I want to know him better than anyone else does.  I want more days like today, forever, for the rest of our lives._
> 
> _I want our band to be the biggest one in the world, all because of me and him._

 Those were the thoughts that followed him to sleep, and for the second time in his life, he dreamed of him and John.  Everything else seemed to slip away.     


	2. Chapter 2

All Paul had been able to think about during Scout camp, and the following holiday at Butlins, was that John was going to replace him.  Or worse, forget about him entirely.  The friendship they had built still seemed tentative and fragile, even before the blow up.  When Paul had told John he'd be leaving for a while, to Scout camp and a holiday with his family, he'd been at the receiving end of the temper John had displayed at Pete's house.  Paul didn't _want_ to miss the show at the Cavern Club, but John had told him off for being fucking ungrateful and selfish anyway, told him not to be surprised if he came back to find his spot filled by someone else.  Paul had rebutted with a few choice words of his own, and that was the last they saw each other. 

Now that he was back in Liverpool, Paul didn't know where their friendship stood.  The only way to find out was to see John in person, which Paul intended to do as soon as possible – that night, in fact.  Despite the argument, a group practice had been scheduled for the night Paul returned.  Although he was exhausted, and desperate to sleep in his own bed without Mike kicking him in the knees all night long, his budding anxiety was enough to force him out the door.   

He was somewhat nervous by the time he reached Pete's.  Even though he had been there when the practice had been scheduled, they had been meeting without him the whole time he was gone.  Maybe he wasn't wanted at all anymore, and his presence was entirely unwelcome.  He steeled himself and opened the door, greeted right away by the sounds of the band tuning their instruments in the next room.  John's back was to him when he rounded the corner, though as if sensing Paul's presence, he peered curiously over his shoulder.

Paul was, for a second, winded.  John's eyes widened in recognition, a smile crossing his face.  He threw up his arms and called, "There's our Macca!" as if nothing had happened.  As if he had actually _missed_ him. 

Paul was hit with the bizarre urge to hug him, to close the distance between them and tell him how much he'd missed him, how worried he had been, how _sorry_ he was.  The rest of the band was right there, though, staring at him expectantly.  He laid a hand on John's shoulder instead, squeezing it tight as he passed by, and then sat down to unpack his guitar. 

The practice went by effortlessly, as if no time had passed at all.  The group spent a great deal of the time laughing at themselves and their mistakes, relaxing into each other's company.  For once, Paul felt like he was a part of it.  Even as the hour grew late and the exhaustion began to catch up with him, Paul didn't want to be the first one to leave; he didn't want to break up the camaraderie of what was finally beginning to feel like something of a second family.  

They fell into something of a routine after that.  Group practices were once a week, at varying locations.  Paul would spend the whole day warming up in anticipation, and he worked extra hard with George in the mean time, learning new chords as a way to impress John and the others, to further secure his place among them.  Paul never mentioned that he'd learned something new; he'd toss in the chord when an opportunity arose, and he never missed the way John would lift his eyebrows, his eyes narrowing in what could have been a hint of jealousy. 

The final practice before school started was at John's mother's house.  Practices there were rapidly becoming Paul's favorite, though he'd only been once before – she was fun, supportive, light shining in her eyes as she listened to them play.  John seemed to glow under the attention, pulling faces at Julia and making her laugh.  It made Paul's heart ache with longing.  It wasn't jealousy, he was surprised to find.  Watching John with Julia, seeing them flash near-identical smiles; their ringing, infectious laughter filling the small house – it was painful, but it was good.  Paul wanted to protect it rather than keep John from it. 

As the practice finished up and the others began to leave, John seeing them out, Paul kept his spot in the front room.  He strummed his guitar aimlessly as Julia followed along on her banjo, after having joined in for the last half hour of their practice.  She was sitting across from him, her leg stretched out from her floral dress so the side of her foot could press against his as they leaned over their instruments.  It felt, in that moment, that she was his mother; that they were making up for all those lost months in a few moments of music that transcended time. 

"You've quite a talent, Mr McCartney," she commented, smiling pleasantly. 

Paul ducked his head, staring down at his fingers on the strings.  "I guess I'm okay," he admitted, all at once five years old and blushing under his own mother's praise. 

She giggled, swatting at his knee.  "Humble, too!  What a charmer.  It's no wonder John likes you." 

Something prickled under Paul's skin, his neck growing hot under his collar.  He _knew_ John liked him, 'course he did, he would have kicked him out a long time ago if he hadn't.  It was different, though, hearing it from John's mother.  It made him wonder if John actually talked about him when he wasn't around, and while a part of him was dying to ask, he would never let himself.  He shrugged his shoulders and played a couple of simple chords. 

"John doesn't know a lot of those, y'know," she said.  "Guitar chords, I mean.  He had a hard time with them when he started learning, so I taught him banjo ones instead.  They're a little easier."  She strummed at her banjo for emphasis before setting it aside, leaning back in her chair and regarding him with a barely hidden smile.  It was one thing Paul already liked about her; she couldn't really look stern, or serious, a smile bursting with love always managed to fight its way to the surface. 

"I hadn't noticed," Paul lied, and Julia rolled her eyes theatrically.  He grinned.  "I mean, he's good anyway, isn't he?"  

"He is."  She put a cigarette between her red lips, leaning in close.  Paul was momentarily distracted by the soft fragrance of her perfume, her proximity, before returning to himself and patting down his pockets.  He lit up her cigarette with a flick of his lighter, and she leaned back, beaming.  "You should try showing him a few." 

"Showing me what?"  Paul jumped at the sound of John's voice, feeling absurdly like he'd been caught doing something wrong.  John looked at him oddly from his place at the threshold, arms folded across his chest.  It wasn't quite a dangerous look, not like he'd been in the moments before he struck Colin with the bottle.  He seemed curious instead, though there may have been a glimmer of hope in his expression, too; along with something that seemed kind of like fear.  

Julia's laugh softened the impact, soothed whatever nerves that were causing Paul's heart to pound.  "Just some guitar chords, John," she said gently.  "He knows more of them than I do, I think." 

John seemed to relax a bit, though a frown still pinched his face.  Paul prepared himself for John to decline, to tell him to fuck off, or at least tell him off for conspiring with Julia.  John, however, did none of these things.  He sighed, his arms dropping to his sides as he pushed himself from the doorframe, fully entering the room. 

"Yeah," he agreed quietly.  "All right."  He slipped on his glasses as he took a seat next to Paul, the couch cushions dipping under their shared weight. 

> _If I had to pick a moment that we went from being band mates to something like friends, it'd be when he sat down beside me, guitar in his lap.  We played for another couple of hours, just the two of us, facing each other and strumming out quiet chords.  He's a fast learner, John, and I barely had to show him anything more than once._
> 
> _It was late by the time we finished, and he told me I could stay the night if I wanted.  His mum's house isn't far from mine, and I could've walked back, but with school starting I'm worried that the band will fall apart.  So I stayed.  We took the bed of one of his little sisters, and it was the longest stretch of time I've ever been alone with him._

The moment John closed the door behind them, locking them away in little Julia's room, Paul was hit with a wave of discomfort.  He stood in the middle of the room, unmoving, waiting to follow John's lead.

"I don't have any clothes here," John admitted.  He jutted his chin at Paul's outfit, the button-up shirt and black drainies.  "So you'll have to sleep in that.  Unless you'd rather borrow one of Julia's nighties." 

Paul grinned at him, apprehension forgotten.  "Maybe.  You think I'll fit?" 

Rather than answering, John threw open the white painted wardrobe.  He procured a ruffled gown with pink polka dots, along with a matching pair of frilly bloomers, which he stretched across his fingers and launched at Paul's face.  The gown was chucked at him soon after, and Paul scrambled to catch it. 

They were much too small, but Paul made a show of struggling into the bloomers anyway, pulling them on over his trousers. 

"Yes, lovely, those suit you."  John pulled out another gown, this one pale green with a flower print, pulling it on over his head and leaving it there as if it were a scarf.  Paul copied the action with his gown, biting his lip to keep from giggling at how ridiculous they looked, the bloomers stretched too tight and squeezing into the middle of his thighs. 

"You're missing part of yours," he pointed out, hands on his hips.  "Naughty girl.  Where are your knickers?"  

"Good heavens!" John cried, high pitched, clutching his chest in mock horror.  "Avert your eyes, mister, I'm indecent!"

He spun back toward the wardrobe and resumed his digging, back arched and a foot jutted out behind him, held aloft daintily.  When he found the matching bloomers, he tugged them onto his head like a hat.  He posed with a finger to lips, batting his eyelids. 

He looked absurd, bits of hair sticking out the leg holes, the waist slipping down over his forehead.  This time, Paul couldn't keep himself from laughing, doubling over and clutching his stomach.  John hushed him fruitlessly, though he was sporting a wide smile of his own.  He rushed over, clutching Paul's shoulders. 

"Shh, enough," he chided through his own giggles, cupping a hand over Paul's mouth.  "You'll wake Bobby and the girls, c'mon now."  His hand was warm over Paul's face, and it still carried the faint, biting smell of guitar strings and sweat.  Paul's eyes fluttered closed and he took a deep breath, hot and muggy from John's palm.

"Good.  You done?"  John lifted his hand away and Paul met his eyes, which were looking at him earnestly, fondly – and the fucking bloomer hat, which chose that moment to slip down entirely, completely hiding his left eye, and Paul lost it again. 

This time John joined him, laughing into Paul's shoulder, all while pleading, "Hush, that's enough, all right?  _Enough_." 

Paul's face was aching by the time he calmed down, and he wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, letting out one last winded chuckle.  The rest of the house was silent, apparently having managed to sleep through the commotion, or choosing to ignore it. 

"Christ, Macca," John said, exasperated.  He rubbed a hand over his face and straightened his makeshift hat, his expression so serious that Paul felt the beginnings of another fit trying to bubble up his chest.  "Impossible to stop once you get going, aren't you?" 

"Not my fault you look ridiculous." 

"Ridiculous?"  John lifted his eyebrows, grinning.  "This is me best outfit, you know." 

"Mm, right.  And this is mine."  He took a few, stilted steps, the too-small bloomers effectively tying his legs together. 

John let out a short bark of a laugh, shaking his head.  "A forward thinking pair of trendsetters, we are.  We'll take Liverpool by storm." 

"Why stop with Liverpool?  We'll take the world, I think." 

"And here I dreamt I'd be in a rock n' roll band.  Instead I'm a queer fashion icon." 

The smile dropped from Paul's face and he regarded John carefully.  He _looked_ like he was joking, but…  "Queer?" he echoed, the discomfort from earlier once more touching at the corners of his mind, like a flame licking at the edges of a sheet of paper.    

John blinked, staring at Paul as if he were the one who'd crossed a line.  "All men in fashion are queer, aren't they?  Part of the job description." 

Paul laughed awkwardly, pushing the bloomers down his legs and abandoning them on the floor.  "Yeah, suppose so."

John looked at him intently, all traces of humor gone, though the effect was somewhat lightened by the bloomers that still sat upon his head.  As if sensing this, John yanked them off, his eyes never leaving Paul's.  "You…" he started, combing a hand through his disheveled hair.  "You're not queer, are you, Paul?" 

Paul's mouth fell open in horror, a sick lump in his throat momentarily preventing him from answering.  Had he been _acting_ queer?  It was disgusting and shameful to even consider, even as a joke, and a part of him was angry with John for asking, for even thinking it.  There was another, quieter part of his mind, however, that was morbidly curious, wondering why he'd asked at all.  Those thoughts were silenced before Paul even had a chance to process them.

"No," he responded adamantly.  "No – _no!_   What the hell, Lennon?" 

John shrugged, looking at a spot on the floor.  He seemed far away suddenly, his brows low and pensive, and he scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck.  "Just wondering, is all.  Good thing to know before getting in bed with someone, innit?" 

"Yeah," Paul agreed, swallowing thickly.  "Yeah, it's – you're not, either, right?"

John shook his head wordlessly. 

He pulled the gown off his head and tossed it aside, frowning.  He seemed angry, almost; a pent up storm stuck in an embarrassed shell, blinking rapidly, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.  Paul didn't know what had gone wrong, or why; John was fucking weird, he knew that much already.  It shouldn't have been so surprising that he'd ask a question like that, no matter how off-the-wall it seemed.  Paul's heart shouldn't have been racing as if he'd run a marathon, his head light and dizzy; something inside of him shouldn't have felt vaguely disappointed. 

Except maybe being disappointed was okay, because they'd been having fun and now they weren't.  They stood awkwardly in the middle of little Julia's room, neither knowing what to say.  Paul latched onto that.  He could make sense of a ruined mood – it was something he could actually fix.  

He punched John's shoulder lightly, grinning.  "Now that we know we can sleep without keeping our backs against the wall…"  He trailed off, lifting his eyebrows. 

John breathed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.  "Right.  It's late."  He sat down on the bed and went about pulling off his boots and jacket, stripping down to his shorts and undershirt.  Paul suspected he must have brought some nightclothes for himself, though whether he was holding off changing into them for Paul's benefit, or out of a strange unwillingness to leave the room, Paul wasn't sure. 

Still, Paul followed his example, undressing and crawling into bed, his head at the end.  He and George always topped and tailed it, and it didn't cross Paul's mind that it might not be the norm for everyone until John stared at him, raising an eyebrow.

"You always sleep upside down, then?" 

Paul shrugged, smirking up at him.  "Sure.  Don't you?" 

John rolled his eyes, snatching the pillow from the head of the bed and tossing it at the end.  He crawled in next to Paul, facing him, their faces a few short inches apart. 

"I don't like feet in my face.  Always end up getting kicked, y'know," John explained.  He adjusted the pillow, scooting it a bit toward Paul, who was resting his head on his folded arm.  "C'mon, then." 

After a short hesitation, Paul slid his head onto the very edge of the pillow.  Most boys probably thought it was better to accidentally get kicked in the face during the night than it was to sleep like this, facing each other, breaths mingling and noses nearly touching.  But there was something comfortable about this; a quiet bubble of privacy that encouraged whispered conversations, that made it safe to talk about anything because the position alone was so arguably awkward. 

The sun was on its way up by the time they finally drifted to sleep, in the middle of an only semi-coherent discussion about their guitars, and how John was in love with his – "no, _seriously_ , Macca, in love, love, _love_ with it."  Paul had been about to make some quip about how he should make love to it when fatigue finally got the better of him.

He woke up only once during the night (or morning, rather), and was vaguely aware that his forehead was pressed against John's.  He was comfortable that way, he decided, and he shifted closer, nuzzling against John's face before sleep once more overtook him. 

*** 

School brought with it a whole new set of responsibilities, and Paul tried his best to remain focused on his studies.  Weekly band practice, to his surprise, was still going strong, though they'd already lost Rod a while back.  Paul was beginning to suspect that Pete was on the way out, too, complaining more and more often that the band was just supposed to be a laugh.  Sometimes Paul and John were the only ones to turn up, and Paul would always insist that they practice anyway. 

"Real bands should have a certain look, don't you think?"

George stared at him blankly, scratching at his head.  "I dunno.  What'd'ya mean?" 

The two of them were sitting together outside during their lunch break, Paul leaning against a tree and doodling in his journal, George strumming his guitar.  Paul shrugged.  He held up the pictures he'd been drawing, depicting a group of boys with instruments, all in matching outfits. 

"Even if it's leather, or white jackets, or something – y'know.  It looks nice.  Professional-like." 

"Guess so," George agreed, shrugging.  "Why?  You starting a band, then?" 

The way his eyes widened hopefully, his hands stilling on the guitar as he stared anxiously at Paul; it was like a slap in the face – a brutal, near-painful reminder that he'd accidentally-on-purpose forgotten to tell George about John, the band, _everything_. 

"Oh," Paul stammered.  "Er – well, I joined one.  Recently." 

George tried to hide his disappointment, but Paul had known him long enough to recognize the subtle way his face fell, despite managing to keep the smile in place.  He shifted his gaze to his guitar, stroking his hand along the body of it, as if he didn't know where the two of them had gone wrong.

"It's just a casual thing," Paul added quickly.  "Lots of people coming and going, y'know, no one takes it very seriously." 

"You seem to," George pointed out.  There was nothing malicious in his tone or expression, but Paul felt attacked anyway.  He frowned and clutched the journal to his chest, hiding his sketches. 

"I want it to _become_ serious, I guess, it's just – not.  Right now.  It's not a big deal." 

George hummed thoughtfully, strumming the open strings.  "Who else is in it?" 

"Just a bunch of guys.  I don't think you know them."  Paul listed them anyway, counting them off on his fingers.  He stumbled slightly over John's name and felt immediately ridiculous for it; he was more comfortable now with John than ever, with the start of their occasional, private chord sessions.  "Should I introduce you?" 

"Sometime, maybe," George answered calmly.

It'd be easier, Paul thought, if George would just yell at him, demand an apology so Paul could give him one, and then they could move on.  This quiet acceptance was causing guilt to churn in Paul's stomach, making it difficult to look at George's face.  Paul hadn't wanted to exclude him, exactly – keeping his life with John and the band separate from his friendship with George had seemed only natural.  Now, though, Paul couldn't quite explain why he'd done it. 

"Look," he said, "John's going to school just there – at the Art College.  We could skive off right now and–"

"It's really all right.  You don't want to skive off for something like that anyway."  That was somewhat true; Paul was a pretty good student, given that he at least _tried_.  George was quite the opposite, though courteous enough to understand that Paul might not really want to leave.  It would only take them a few minutes to sneak over, but then there was the matter of actually getting inside and finding John.  They'd end up being gone long enough for someone to notice; it was unavoidable. 

Paul sighed, thumping his head back against the tree.  "At least come to a practice sometime.  Or a gig, if we get one."

"Might do." 

They fell back into silence, George resuming his playing and Paul trying to distract himself with his journal.  He'd been brainstorming ideas for the band all week – now that he was fully involved in it, the lack of dedication from the others was discouraging; infuriating, even.  John, at least, seemed to take it somewhat seriously, and had admitted he was open to ideas.  For Paul, it was all or nothing; either they were going to look good and sound even better, treat themselves as real professionals and see what happened, or it wasn't worth doing at all. 

He'd written a good page and a half of ideas, everything from getting a real bass player to being more strict about attendance, before he'd started in on the outfits.  While John had looked rugged and cool in his simple button-up and drainies when Paul had met him, it hadn't really screamed "real band."  They'd just looked like a bunch of kids with instruments, which was fine – because they were.  It just wasn't _good_ enough.  Paul had seen photos of his dad's old jazz band, and what he remembered over anything else was how clean and professional they'd all looked with their matching suits and bowties and nicely combed hair.  That had long ago set the standard in his mind of how bands should be, and he was determined to find a way to make it happen. 

Now, however, the ideas weren't coming as easily.  Paul stared down at the page, tapping his pen in frustration, accomplishing little more than dotting up the margin.  It felt somewhat cruel to do this with George right beside him, strumming obliviously, blatantly left out. 

"They're not very good, y'know," Paul said.  George blinked up at him, confused.  "The band.  I mean, I'm all right, and so's John, but the others…  We could really use you, is what I mean." 

George's smile came back, along with a small glimmer of the hope.  He finally agreed, nodding eagerly.  While Paul's protective, older brother feelings were soothed, he began to realize that John had been less than enthusiastic about Paul's age.  Getting John to consider George at all would be a challenge he wasn't quite sure he could tackle.  For George, though, he was determined to try.      

*** 

Paul brought his sketches to the next practice.  There weren't any gigs on the immediate horizon, which Paul considered a good thing.  The band had been disorganized at best lately, and this would give them plenty of time to get their act together before they had to appear on stage somewhere. 

He'd almost brought the entire journal, and only realized once he was halfway out the door that it probably wasn't the best idea.  He tore out the page of doodles and ran the journal back up to his room, hiding it in its place on the bookshelf.  It was too easy to imagine John taking it from him and skimming through it, making fun of Paul for keeping a diary, and even more so for the queer things he'd written in it. 

 _Queer_.  The word carried a whole new, uncomfortable meaning now.  All Paul could picture was John's face, the way he'd stared at him when he asked Paul if he was one.  He hadn't quite been able to push it out of his mind, despite the countless justifications he'd come up with for John asking the question in the first place.  Despite his newfound comfort with John, there was a part of him that never quite relaxed, that paid careful attention to everything he said and did around the other boy, _just in case_. 

Paul, John, and Pete were the only ones to show up that evening.  They had waited a full half hour before getting started on their own, John growing increasingly irate as the minutes dragged on. 

Though the music helped to soothe John's mood, his lingering irritation allowed for the perfect segue into Paul's ideas.  The three of them sat together on the couch with the tea Mimi had provided before she'd headed out for the afternoon.  Paul sat between John and Pete with his journal pages spread across his knees. 

"I just think we should be more strict, y'know, let the fellas know it's serious now," Paul was saying, tapping at the bulleted point on his list.  John nodded along enthusiastically, scratching at his chin as he squinted down at the page.  Pete, Paul noticed, had started to look increasingly worried, contributing less and less as Paul delved into professionalism and image.

"Yeah, fuckin' professional," John cackled, grinning wide.  "If no one turns up at practice, Pete and I'll cripple 'em!"  He leaned forward, looking past Paul for validation.  Pete, however, didn't meet his eyes.

"Listen, Winston," he said, pushing out a heavy sigh.  Paul could feel it – this was the moment he'd been expecting for a while now.  The way the hint of a smile still clung to John's face, however, told him John was about to be blindsided.  It gave him a distinct feeling of panic, like watching a bullet fly at John's head in slow motion, though unable to do anything about it. 

Pete, however, forged ahead.  "All this band business – I hate it.  It's not for me." 

The silence that followed was nearly palpable and seemed to stretch for an eternity, John's eyes narrowed and his teeth clenched, a muscle in his jaw twitching.  He pushed himself off the couch with violent force, launching forward and storming across the room to Pete's washboard, which had been propped against the far wall. 

"C'mon, John," Pete groaned, standing, and from there things seemed to happen impossibly quickly. 

In an instant, John slammed the washboard over Pete's head, the wood splintering weakly and the metal cracking dully against his hair.  The wooden frame dangled from Pete's shoulders like a mockery, and Paul could see him trembling, could see the barely contained rage on John's face, the subtle flaring of his nostrils as he breathed heavily. 

"Well," John said loftily.  "That solves _that_ , then, doesn't it?" 

Pete staggered backward and collapsed back onto the couch, and Paul grabbed his arm, steadying him.  He seemed okay, mostly.  He was dazed, horrified, _hurt_ – the hurt seemed more based in betrayal than actual pain, though Paul was certain he had enough of that to last him a couple of days.  His mouth hung open and he looked up at John desperately, and it was the first time Paul had seen him without a comeback, unable to give John some of his own. 

"Hey," Paul whispered, touching Pete's hair carefully, feeling for a bump, for blood.  "Are you all right?"  This was the second time John had hurt someone, right in front of Paul, as if it were nothing.  It had been somewhat cool and dangerous the first time, had added to the appeal.  But if this was how John handled all his confrontations, even with close friends… Paul glared up at him.  "What the hell, John, what're you–" 

"You," John interrupted, rounding on Paul.  The fury still darkened his eyes, a mindless sort of rage that Paul didn't know what to make of.  "Put that shite away.  We're not wearing your stupid matching outfits, you fucking queer." 

It felt as if John had plunged a knife into his chest.  Paul jerked back with the force of it, his skin prickling like _he'd_ been physically assaulted instead of Pete.  Paul's mouth hung open as he desperately searched for something to say.  But then John was leaving, turning on heel and storming out, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the walls. 

Pete drew in a shaky breath, and for a second, Paul feared he was about to burst into tears.  Instead, he delicately lifted the frame of the washboard off his shoulders, setting it down in an almost mechanical way.  He then placed his head in his hands, rubbing wearily at his face. 

"Well," he said calmly, "that could've gone better." 

Paul wanted to ask him what the hell he'd been thinking, why he didn't try to at least soften the blow rather than saying he hated the band.  Instead, he shook his head and patted Pete's shoulder.  "He was already in a bad mood, is all."

Pete nodded quietly, sucking in another rattling inhale. 

"You sure you're all right?"

"Just a bit of a headache."  Pete shrugged.  "It's fine."  He lifted his head, smirking weakly.  "Should've seen your face, though.  Don't worry too much, he calls everyone queer.  Doesn't mean anything." 

That caught Paul by surprise.  He snatched his hand back and stared down at his lap, focusing intently on collecting the journal pages and folding them back up.  "I know." 

"What?" Pete goaded.  "Is it your face?  You get called queer a lot because you've got a girly face?" 

" _No!_ " Paul shoved the pages in his pocket and folded his arms tightly across his chest.  He didn't like Pete, hadn't liked him since day one.  Which was a bit unfair, he realized now – Pete was kind, the only one who had immediately let Paul in without judging him, oblivious to Paul's jealousy.  That was all it had been, really; there was nothing unlikeable about Pete as a person.  It had all been about John, and Paul wasn't quite certain if he liked John that much at the moment. 

It was likely that Pete was feeling the same thing.  In retrospect, that may have been the only reason Paul felt comfortable with confessing what had been bothering him. 

"It's just… John asked me if I was.  I mean, he asked seriously, and ever since I've kind of…"

He trailed off, shrugging.  The silence that followed lingered for an uncomfortably long time.  While Paul hadn't wanted to see Pete's reaction, he couldn't stop himself now from glancing up, desperate for some form of feedback.  Pete stared at him with wide eyes, a tiny splash of color on his cheeks, his expression something like relief. 

"He's asked me that, too," he admitted in a rush, leaning in conspiratorially.  His voice dropped to a whisper.  "Did he – er… Did he seem disappointed?  Y'know.  When you said you weren't." 

Paul wanted to say yes, because suddenly it was all making sense.  The shift in John's mood that night, the way he wouldn't meet Paul's eyes.  It was as if he'd been disappointed, as if he'd hoped Paul would say that he was. 

Pete was staring at him searchingly, lip pulled between his teeth.  This was important, this could ruin John's reputation – ruin his _life_ , maybe.  If he was going around, asking boys if they were queer, _hoping_ that they were – it could really only mean one thing.  

Paul's stomach churned.  Surely not.  John was too cool, too rough and masculine to be queer.  He was just curious, maybe – John clearly had a penchant for anything that went against society's norm, why shouldn't he be fascinated by living abominations?  Maybe, bizarrely, he just wanted a queer in the band.

Paul would have let himself believe that, if not for the voice that reminded him that he'd been inexplicably disappointed with John's answer, too.  Discussing John's reasons would force him to examine his own, and that wasn't something Paul was prepared to do.  Not now, and preferably not ever.

"No," he said simply, knitting his brows in a look of practiced confusion that got him off the hook so many times at school.  "Why would he?" 

Pete sighed, leaning back against the couch, deflated.  "Dunno.  Never mind." 

***

> _I didn't think I'd ever see Pete again after that.  He was at practice tonight, though, with his repaired washboard.  He said John talked him into doing a few more performances before he's out for good, and he and John got on as if nothing had happened._
> 
> _John didn't apologize to me, but I didn't expect him to.  He treated me like normal, and I had a good time, but I still feel differently about him.  Maybe that's a good thing, given the circumstances.  We probably need some distance._

The distance, Paul found, would be easier to bear if George were a part of the band.  At practices, Paul continued to naturally gravitate to John, who still welcomed Paul's input, though they hadn't yet broached the subject of outfits again.  They tiptoed around the incident as if it hadn't happened at all, and while a part of Paul was fine with that, he also longed for some kind of closure.  John, however, seemed none the wiser. 

Life went on.  Paul balanced school and the band, which he found somewhat easier now that his obsession with John had died down.  He spent less time outside of practice wondering what John was doing or what John thought of him, and more time trying to convince George to come to a practice and meet everyone.  George claimed he'd rather come to a show, rather than turning up uninvited to a practice, though gigs had been nearly impossible to come by lately. 

"Seems like you're doing all this practice for nothing, then," George commented once, after another fruitless attempt to get him to come along after school to a practice. 

George hadn't meant any harm – of course he hadn't, he was _George_ , after all – though Paul found himself somewhat discouraged by it anyway.  So when October rolled around, and Nigel announced he'd secured them a spot in a skiffle and rock event at New Clubmoor Hall in Norris Green, Paul was almost as relieved as he was excited. 

Practices became more frequent, everyone showing up and focusing, which may have had something to do with John's increased threats. This gig was a big deal, would have an actual promoter there judging them, and John took on a new level of seriousness that Paul hadn't seen from him before.  Paul found himself taking it seriously, too, in a way he wouldn't have expected from himself when he first joined.  He worked endlessly on the solo for 'Guitar Boogie', just because no one else could do it, just to prove that he _could_. 

After a Friday evening practice at Paul's house, two weeks before the show, John lingered behind as the others saw themselves out.  He simply sat there on the parlor floor, leaning back with his head against the couch, exposing the long, pale line of his neck.  He didn't say anything, nor did he go through the motions of packing up his guitar – Paul would have thought he were asleep if he hadn't pulled out his mouth organ, playing it disjointedly. 

"Are you just going to sleep there, then?" Paul asked when they were alone. 

John stopped playing, licking the extra spit from his lips.  He kept his gaze focused on the ceiling.  "I've been thinking about what you said." 

"I've said a lot of things." 

"Y'know – the thing.  About the outfits.  That thing." 

Paul frowned.  "Ah – that thing."  He lit up a cigarette just to give himself something to do with his hands.  "What about it?" 

Finally lifting his head, John stared at him intently.  "It's a good idea, innit?  We should look professional, y'know.  Could make all the difference." 

Not for the first time, Paul wanted to grab him and shake him.  For weeks he'd been thinking John hated the idea, so much so that they could never talk about it again.  Now John just casually brought it up, nearly at the last minute, as if it took him this long to actually realize Paul's ideas weren't completely childish. 

"It _does_ make all the difference," Paul corrected him.  He moved to the couch, sitting down next to John's head.  "If we look serious, we'll get taken seriously." 

John snorted a laugh.  "Thank thee, oh Lord, for sending the infallible Paul McCharmly to lead us to the heights of professionalism." 

"Shut up."  Paul kicked at him halfheartedly.  "Did you have something in mind?" 

"Remember that drawing you did of the little jackets with the dangly bits and the ties?"

Paul stared at him, mystified.  _Of course_ he remembered it – he'd seen the jackets in a shop window himself, and spent an almost embarrassingly long time trying to get the details right as he sketched them out.  The fact that John remembered them after so long, after little more than a glance at his torn journal papers, resonated somewhere deep within Paul; he felt more than appreciative – he was genuinely _touched_.

He tried to ignore the feeling, the overwhelming gravitational pull that was John Lennon, focusing instead on the subject at hand.  "I should remember.  I drew it, after all." 

"Right, so – those will be good, I reckon."

Paul shrugged.  They were good in theory, sure – but the jackets alone, despite their simplicity, were a little pricey.  Saving up enough to get all the matching ties and accessories on top of that seemed even more impossible. 

"Probably should've thought of this sooner," Paul said, a little bitterly.  "Where do you plan on getting the money?" 

"We'll have Nigel collect it.  Make everyone pitch in." 

Paul sighed, rolling his eyes fondly.  It was a weak plan at best, but at least it was something – if John remembered to follow through, that is. 

Still, Paul spent the days that followed trying to think of alternatives, things that they all might have in their closets, if worst came to worst.  These ideas John dismissed – " _we're getting the jackets, Paulie, I've told you_ " – though Paul became somewhat confident that everyone had simple black dress shirts and slacks.  It would be better than nothing. 

He contributed his money like everyone else, half a crown every practice, though he hadn't realized they'd even come close until the night before the show when Nigel turned up with two large clothing bags. 

"Could only afford two, I'm afraid.  John–" Nigel tossed one to him, and John caught it with a look of glee, flashing a smile at Paul.  "And this one should go to…"

"Paul," John asserted.  It was that moment that Paul felt the first genuine rush of excitement for the show, and a newfound affection for John – he'd been preparing to make a case for himself, how this was his idea and it was only fair.  But John could see that, he _knew_ , and they were going to go on stage looking like Paul wanted them to.  Somehow that was just as thrilling as the thought of performing at all. 

Nigel passed the jacket to him and Paul excitedly freed it from the bag.  It was a lovely cream color, just as he'd remembered.  He slid it on over his t-shirt and drainies, testing the fit.  Looking down at himself, he still thought it'd look good, but it would be even better with the matching white button-ups and black trousers. 

"I've ties for all of you," Nigel declared, pulling out another little bag.  The rest of the practice turned into excited discussions of the show and set list, Paul reminding everyone repeatedly how important it was for them to _please_ wear the right outfit. 

"What for?" Colin asked, and Paul couldn't quite tell if he was joking or not.  "The band's turned into you and John, hasn't it?  No one's going to be looking at anyone else." 

"Why should they?" John interjected.  "Paul's the pretty one, isn't he?" 

Out of the corner of his eye, Paul could see Pete leaning over, could sense him trying to make eye contact.  But no – _no_ – they weren't doing that, they weren't going have a silent acknowledgement every time John did something arguably queer.  Paul quickly began to regret talking to him; it felt like a betrayal of the worst sort, even if he hadn't really said anything incriminating.  John didn't mean any harm. 

"True," Paul allowed, pointedly ignoring Pete's gaze.  "Can't help it, I'm afraid." 

"It's a curse, y'see," John lamented.  "Poor sod'll have the whole room watching him when he cocks up."   

Paul frowned at him.  "When've I ever cocked up anything?"

"There's a first time for everything, son." 

"Not for me."  Paul had been waiting for an opportunity to ask about the solo, and this was as good an opportunity as any.  John wouldn't back down from a challenge, Paul was certain.  "Give me the 'Guitar Boogie' solo and I'll prove it." 

John's eyebrows shot up, his smile broadening.  He'd already taken the bait and swallowed it whole, and if Paul weren't so sure of himself, he might have been a little nervous.  "Solo's yours," John said casually.  He leaned a shoulder against the wall, studying Paul intently.  "And when you cock it up, you're out of the band, and the shame'll follow you for the rest of your life.  Dear ol' dad'll probably disown you, too." 

Paul laughed off the threat.  This was his opportunity to prove himself; he wasn't going to let John scare him away from it.  It wasn't as though John would actually kick him out of the band if he messed up – at least, Paul didn't think he would. 

***

By the next day, Paul's nerves were starting to get to him.  They'd assault him in tiny bursts when he least expected it, making his hands shake and his fingers ache for his guitar – school felt like such a waste.  He should be home, practicing, making sure he could play that bloody solo with his eyes closed. 

"What're you so worked up over?" George asked him at lunchtime.  Paul had brought his guitar out and was running the solo instead of eating.  He'd offered his lunch to George – he was too nervous to even fathom eating, and George always looked like he needed to be fed anyway. 

"I'm not worked up," Paul lied.  "Got a gig tonight, though, just thought I'd practice." 

George smiled in a soft, understanding way, resting his chin in his hands.  "Whereabouts?" 

"A club in Norris Green.  I've got a solo and everything.  You should come."  It would be the perfect opportunity to introduce him to John and the others.  If George brought his guitar along, he could very well secure himself a spot in the band tonight. 

"Can't tonight.  Mum's doing a dinner thing." He shrugged.  "She wants me there." 

If they had been having this conversation a few years ago, Paul would have rolled his eyes and told George to come anyway, that this was important and his mum would get over it.  Now, however, he simply nodded, frowning down at his guitar.  If given the chance, he would go back in a heartbeat and relive all the moments with his own mother that he'd missed, all the things he'd skipped out on in favor of going out.  George should embrace the opportunity while he still had it.  "All right.  Have fun, mate." 

"Some other time, maybe." 

 _Some other time_ – assuming Paul didn't ruin the solo and get himself kicked out of the band.  He shook his head to clear it.  That wasn't going to happen, and even if it did (it _wouldn't_ ), John would understand.  He'd never performed before, of course he was nervous.  Even a performer as confident as John had to be able to relate to that. 

"Hey."  George nudged him, grinning.  "You'll do great." 

Paul swatted him away.  "I know, I know – I'm not worried." 

He'd never say so, but George's blind faith lifted his spirits considerably, putting him a good mood that carried him into the evening.  It wasn't until he arrived at the venue with the band that the nerves hit him again at full force – he wished, somewhat desperately, that George could have come along, if only to be a friendly face in the crowd. 

The first thing Paul noticed was how loud it was; he hadn't thought about an audience much at all, but the room was packed.  Paul quickened his step, following closely behind John as they made their way through to the backstage area, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.  John, however, didn't have his glasses on, and Paul used that as an excuse for the closeness, laying his hand on the middle of John's back to steer him.  It was a good thing, too – the light fixtures jutted out from the wall, and John very nearly collided with a few of them. 

Once they settled themselves backstage, all they could do was wait for their name to be called, which left ample time for Paul to work himself up again.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this nervous over anything; it wasn't really in his nature.  Even speaking in front of a class at school couldn't compare to what he was feeling now, his hands sweaty and incapable.  He suddenly doubted his ability to play at all – even if he remembered the chords, it didn't feel like he'd be able to control his fingers. 

He looked up, his eyes seeking out John for reassurance – even if it was no more than a smile – but John had disappeared.  Paul leaned forward, looking around the tiny space that had been allotted to the groups for the evening, and Paul couldn't spot John among any of them.  "Where–" he started, only to be interrupted by Eric.

"Puking, probably," he said tiredly, pushing out a sigh.  "He'll be back."

Paul stared at him blankly.  No one else seemed concerned, either plucking quietly at their instruments to entertain themselves or playing cards.  "What's wrong?" Paul asked, standing.  "Is he ill?"  The dressing room was hot, overfilled with sweaty bodies, the air heavy with cigarette smoke – it was enough to make anyone feel queasy, but if their front man was actually under the weather…

Pete waved him off.  "Just nervous, y'know.  It happens almost every time." 

"I'm going to check on him," Paul announced, and he half-expected someone to join him.  No one moved, however, save for Nigel, who only told him to be quick about it, and to "tell John to hurry it up."   

Paul pushed his way out of the dressing room and back out into the cool air of the hallway, pausing for a moment to suck in the fresher air.  It did a lot to calm his nerves, putting his own creeping feelings of sickness at bay.  He could hear the audience again from here, though; could hear another band playing _extremely_ well.  The crowd was cheering loudly, and Paul hoped desperately that The Quarrymen didn't go on next – they would sound terrible in comparison.

The toilets were just down the hall and Paul made his way quickly to escape the sound.  John was there, bent over a sink and splashing water on his face.  He'd abandoned his jacket somewhere, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.    

"You all right?" Paul asked gently, touching his shoulder.  John glanced up, meeting Paul's eyes in the mirror.  He was too pale, dark under his eyes, two pink blotches of broken blood vessels high on his cheeks. 

"I can manage to take a piss without your help, believe it or not." 

Paul sighed, pulling his hand away.  "It's hot back there, is all.  I had to step out to keep from throwing up."  He shrugged.  "Thought it might've been bothering you, too." 

John's expression softened and he stood up straighter, facing Paul fully.  "Yeah, that – it was a little of that, too.  Here–" he stuck a towel under the sink, dampening it.  "Turn around.  Take the jacket off, too." 

Paul followed his instructions, frowning to himself, glancing over his shoulder to see what John was up to.  John pushed aside the short hairs at the base of Paul's head and laid the towel across his neck, the sudden coolness making him shiver. 

"That should help," John said.  His hands drifted to Paul's shoulders, squeezing them softly before sliding away entirely. 

Paul turned back around to face him, staring up into John's eyes.  "Thanks." 

The excess water was dripping down the back of his shirt, trailing down his spine and making his skin crawl, but John was right – it helped.  He hadn't realized how hot he'd really gotten, too distracted by his budding panic to pay attention to the temperature.  The relief must have shown on his face, because John smiled softly.

"See?"  He reached around, sliding the towel off Paul's neck to wipe at Paul's face with it, letting it linger on his forehead.  "Fuckin' sweaty and we haven't even started yet." 

Paul laughed quietly – the peace that surrounded them seemed so fragile, as if even the slightest noise would shatter it.  "Reckon it'll be cooler on stage, honestly." 

"Hope so." 

John slid the towel down Paul's neck, circling it carefully under his chin before dipping downward.  His free hand loosened Paul's tie and popped open the top two buttons, and Paul shivered when the coolness of the towel dipped down into his shirt, trailing along his collarbone.  It felt amazing, and Paul leaned his head back slightly despite himself, giving John more room. 

There was a dark water stain on the ceiling over John's head and Paul stared at it determinedly, counting his breaths, keeping them steady.  He didn't know what to do with his hands – they dangled awkwardly at his sides, his fingers twitching as John's breath puffed against his damp skin, sending delightful chills down his spine.  John's free hand still rested over Paul's chest, his fingers curling into his collar, allowing his knuckles to brush against Paul's skin.  Paul's breath caught at the slight contact and John let out an answering, shaky exhale. 

Then the feeling was gone, and Paul heard a quiet thump as John tossed the towel into the bin.  "Better?"

"Yeah," Paul breathed. 

They stood there for a moment, staring at each other.  It felt as if the universe was waiting for something – as if _John_ were waiting for something.  He looked at Paul searchingly, that distant, thoughtful expression on his face.  They were so physically close to each other, but John seemed so far away at the same time.  Paul wanted to reach out and grab him, bring him close, assure himself that John was still there. 

"Ready to back?" he asked instead, jutting his head toward the door. 

"Ah–" John squinted down at his watch, frowning.  Paul chuckled.

"Are you going to put your glasses on, at least?"

"Didn't bring 'em." 

"Jesus, Lennon, why not?" 

John shrugged, a smirk pulling at his lips.  "More fun to make you lead me around, innit?" 

"Only place I should be leading you is home," Paul teased.  "What would Mimi say?" 

" _Glasses, John!_ " John trilled, his imitation so nearly perfect that Paul couldn't help but laugh at it. 

The laughter – the distraction – must have been good for both of them, because when Paul focused on John again, some of his color had returned, his eyes dancing with mirth.  "Come on," Paul urged, taking John's arm.  "Everyone's waiting for us." 

John let Paul lead him back to the dressing room, though it was probably unnecessary.  Paul kept a tight hold on him as some kind of mock revenge, instructing him needlessly to "mind your head," "don't trip," and "watch out for the door."  John laughed the whole way, staggering into Paul more than he would have if Paul had just let him be. 

They sat next to each other when they returned to the dressing room, their shoulders pressed together.  Neither of them spoke until their group was called, and John grinned at him.  "Ready?" 

Paul nodded.  "Yeah."  In that moment, he felt he could never be more prepared, like he could actually _do_ this. 

That changed the moment they stepped on stage and Paul looked out at the audience.  Realistically, the crowd probably wasn't that big, but to Paul, it felt as if all of England were staring at him.  He glanced nervously at John, who seemed surprisingly at home, already introducing the band with his captivating charm. 

 _He can't see them_ , Paul realized belatedly, a bizarre urge to laugh bubbling up in his chest.  If he hadn't already suspected that John was a bloody genius, he certainly thought so now. 

"And our newest addition," John went on, turning to Paul, "Mr Paul McCartney." 

The audience cheered dutifully and Paul raised a hand, smiling to himself.  They went straight into 'Guitar Boogie', and Paul was somewhat surprised with how well he was playing, how good they all sounded together.  The chords seemed to come so smoothly, one right after another with Paul barely having to think about it – it was only when he acknowledged that he wasn't thinking about it that he realized he didn't know what part they were at, and his fingers went limp, slipping against the frets, and – _oh God_ , it was the solo. 

John was looking at him in horror, Paul could feel it – could feel every set of eyes in the room staring at him.  He tried his best to save himself, to play something that sounded right, but the strings kept buzzing and the notes continued to fall flat.  Paul could feel his face burning, his heart pounding so hard that he vaguely wondered if it was about to burn itself out.  Falling over dead didn't seem so bad at the moment – not with the room so painfully quiet that he could hear his own frantic breaths and the sound of his fingers sliding against the strings. 

He threw together some semblance of a conclusion and stepped back, hiding himself between Len and Colin.

The rest of the performance passed by in a sickening blur; they must have done okay, because no one booed or threw anything by the time they finished.  They even applauded as the group left the stage, though that may have been because they were happy to see them go. 

Paul was almost too ashamed to meet John's eyes, to see the anger that would surely be brewing there.  But he couldn't stand it – he needed to know, needed to get it over with.  If John wanted to kick him out, he might as well do it quickly. 

The second he met John's eyes, however, John burst into loud peals of laughter, stopping in the middle of the hallway to support himself on a wall.  "Bleedin' Christ!" he howled, and Paul stared at him in bafflement.  The others, he noticed, looked just as confused as he felt.  "Have you ever seen anything so pathetic?  I can't – I can't _believe_ – suave fucking Paul McCharmly, 'bout to cry on the bloody stage."

When it became obvious that this wasn't a setup, that John wasn't about to turn on him, Paul found himself joining in.  It was better than anger, than hatred – he could deal with being laughed at. 

"I thought you were going to lay into him something fierce," Colin admitted, letting out a relieved laugh of his own. 

John could do little more than shake his head, wiping the tears from his eyes as giggles continued to overtake him every time he tried to catch his breath.  And then they were all laughing, standing there in the hallway like a bunch of rowdy schoolboys, their laughter echoing through the hallway and drowning out the distant music. 

> _It was, somehow, the perfect ending to what could have been the worst night of my life.  John didn't seem mad at me at all when we went out afterward, as if he had forgotten about his threat to kick me out.  There's a good person in him, even if he likes to hide it, and when he shows it, I like him more than anyone.  I don't think it matters that he can be violent, or cruel, or anything else.  He's a good friend when it's important, and I would be a fool to ever give up on him._

*** 

The final verdict, Paul found out later, was "good and bad," according to promoter Charlie McBain.  Paul was almost certain that he was the "bad," and he braced himself for John to comment on it, but he never did.  John was focused more on the "good," and it put him in an infectiously good mood, which only escalated when Nigel announced that Charlie had invited them to play at some of his other venues in Garston, starting in November. 

"I've been thinking," Paul told him one evening.  They had met up after school at a pub called Ye Cracke, and were currently sitting across from each other, huddled in a corner.  Paul suspected John had chosen a table out of direct view of the door on purpose – they didn't usually cross paths after school, and it was probably intentional, so John could keep Paul separated from his college friends. 

"What've I told you about that?"

Paul ignored him.  "We're right professionals now, what with the full schedule and all."  John beamed at him over his drink, and Paul paused to return the smile.  "So I reckon we should start writing our own stuff." 

John hummed thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on the table.  "I've thought of that, too.  Buddy Holly writes his own stuff, y'know.  Seems better than having a bunch of greedy writer-types do it for you." 

"Can you write?" 

"Not songs."  John shrugged.  "I've written poetry and stuff, y'know – stories.  Never a song." 

This was a topic Paul had hesitated to tackle, but if they were going to start writing together, he might as well be honest.  He took a long drink, giving himself a moment to think before he blurted, "I've written one.  Once.  After – my mum died." 

John stared at him, his mouth pinched in a shape that was almost a frown. 

"It's kind of like writing poetry," Paul went on, just to fill the silence.  "You just put music with it, kind of play along and see which words fit.  It's not hard." 

"If it's so easy why've you only written one?"

Paul kicked him under the table and John laughed into his drink, splattering beer across the table and the sleeves of Paul's leather jacket. 

"All right, all right."  John leaned back in his chair, picking up his abandoned cigarette from the ashtray.  "Do I get to hear this masterpiece of a song, then?" 

"Not if you're going to be a dick about it." 

"Come on, Paulie."  John batted his eyes.  "I'm a dick to everyone, don't think you're special." 

Paul snorted, fishing out a cigarette for himself.  "Hm, no – I don't think I'm inclined to share at all, matter of fact." 

" _Paul_ ," John groaned, leaning over on the table.  "Luv.  Light of my life.  The most special, talented–"

"Shh, _shhh!_ "  Paul's face was burning and he looked around the pub in horror.  No one was paying any attention – the sounds of conversation, rattling glasses, and the muffled music from the jukebox drowning out John's drunken pleas.  He looked back at John, smiling softly.  John's words still rang in his ears, making his chest feel tight and fluttery.  A strange part of him wanted John to keep going, to say it over and over. 

John, however, had gone silent, and was staring up at Paul with his chin on the table, grinning wide.  Paul rolled his eyes, sighing indulgently.  "You're insufferable.  You know that, right?" 

"Mimi reminds me daily." 

"Come back to mine and I'll play it for you, then," Paul said, standing.  John followed his lead, smirking triumphantly, though somehow Paul felt like he was the one who had triumphed.  John had never come over to Paul's house for no reason before – it was always for band practice, or their occasional chord sessions.  While this was still about the band, it didn't feel as serious.  It was more like they were spending time together because they _wanted_ to – a few months ago, Paul would have never thought they'd reach this point.

It felt natural, though, for them to board the bus together, sliding close in a single seat as if they'd done so a million times.  On the way, John dug through his bag and produced a stack of wrinkled papers, which he passed to Paul after sheepishly weeding out a few and crumpling them up with a look of disgust.  It was all poetry, Paul realized, after he managed to make sense of the messy, slanted writing. 

Some of it was almost painfully melodramatic – Paul was loath to imagine the ones John hadn't seen fit to share – but most of it was surprisingly good.  It was all very maudlin, loving and emotional in a way that made Paul slightly uncomfortable to read while sitting right next to him.  But it was also almost naturally lyrical, and Paul couldn't help but read some of them with a tune in his head, smiling to himself. 

"These are amazing, John," Paul admitted, nudging him with his elbow.  He wanted to say something about how he would have never expected such soft, sweet words from someone like John, who had perfectly captured the rough, rebellious Teddy boy look and demeanor.  The thought that, beneath it all, John might be a big sentimentalist – it was both surprising and expected all at once. 

John shrugged.  "I wasn't really trying on those," he said, biting on a nail, and Paul rolled his eyes. 

"Just take the compliment, would you?"

"I never rejected it.  'Course they're amazing.  I'm just telling you I can do better, is all." 

"Right."  Paul handed the papers back to him, shaking his head.  "Good.  Writing songs shouldn't be a problem for you, then." 

The house was still blessedly empty when they arrived.  It would be hard enough sitting there and playing for John – the last thing Paul needed was for Mike and his dad to listen in.  They made themselves comfortable in the living room, John stretched out on the couch with Paul in the chair beside him, guitar in his lap.  It would be easier, he decided, not to drag this out, even though a part of him wanted to explain the whole thing before he got started.  He wanted to remind John that it was his first song; that it probably wasn't perfect. 

But at least he tried; he had a fully finished song, and that was more than John could say.  With that in mind, Paul began to play, putting as much passion into it as he would if it were a song by one of his idols.  There was nowhere to look but at John, so Paul stared into him, just to prove that he was confident enough not to look away. 

He watched the subtle shift of John's expression, changing from skepticism, to disbelief, to open enjoyment.  Paul finished off the song with gusto, strumming the strings loudly, and the light that sparkled in John's eyes made it all worth it. 

"Bloody hell, Macca," he breathed.  "That's good – very Buddy Holly, y'know?" 

Paul hadn't anticipated a compliment quite like that, and he glowed under the attention.  "You liked it, then?" 

"What's not to like?"  He sat forward, leaning closer to Paul, chin on his knees.  "I expected a fuckin' nursery rhyme.  This is – it's really good, yeah.  Of course I liked it." 

Paul beamed and dug out two cigarettes, slipping both between his lips to light them up before passing one to John.  John nodded in thanks, inhaling deeply.  "Shit, Paul," he sighed.  "With music like that, we could start making our own records." 

"We'd need more," Paul said.  "A lot more.  Er – well, at least two, anyway." 

"Should be easy enough if we're writing together." 

"Together?"

John shrugged.  "Like a team, y'know – partners." 

That, somehow, meant everything.  What they had was officially a partnership, and it felt as though Paul had permanently secured his place in John's life.  They were doing this until the day the band fell apart, which was a day Paul suddenly hoped would never come. 

"Do we need to – I dunno – shake hands or something?" Paul asked, only halfway kidding.  "Sign a contract?" 

John rolled his eyes dramatically.  "No, you tosser.  What was that you said?  You're _'in this until you look me in the eyes and tell me you're out'_?  That'll do for now." 

Paul started to correct him, remind him that he'd originally given John the power to kick him out, but… This seemed better.  "Same for you, then.  No matter what happens, I'm going to assume we're partners until you look me in the eyes and tell me different." 

"Okay, good."

"Good." 

They smiled at each other for a moment before shaking hands anyway.  It was such a familiar feeling, like returning home after a long trip – it immediately transported Paul back to the fete, standing in the church hall and basking in John's presence for the first time, the warmth of his hand no more than a fleeting sensation.  It lasted longer this time, their hands hooked together as securely as puzzle pieces, heat budding between their palms. 

They spent the rest of the evening holed up in Paul's room, sitting across from each other on his bed and going through Paul's record collection.  Paul managed to introduce him to the Coasters and Larry Williams, which felt like something of an accomplishment, since it was beginning to seem like John already knew of every band worth knowing.  John seemed particularly enamored with Williams, grinning wide and singing along, even though he didn't know the words. 

They got in bed facing each other for the second time that night, curled up close and sharing Paul's pillow, stripped down to their undershirts and briefs.  It felt strangely _right_ , even when John's foot slid cautiously along his calf, his eyes searching Paul's.  Paul didn't know what he was looking for, but he hoped John found it; hoped he'd find everything he ever needed right here. 

John's lips parted as if to speak, and he sucked in a quiet breath, shifting subtly closer.  He lifted a hand, letting it hover between them – as if reaching out to a frightened animal – before he slowly, carefully laid it on Paul's cheek.  The feeling was electric – an instant burst of warmth shooting across Paul's cheeks and down his spine, an ocean of color blooming between them where they were connected.  It took his breath away.  John's thumb slid across his cheekbone and Paul wanted to turn his face into the feeling, bury himself forever in the warmth of John's palm. 

He didn't move – _couldn't_ move.  John's soft, unreadable gaze paralyzed him; terrified him and excited him all at once.  Then John's eyes were sliding closed and his face drifted closer, until Paul could feel John's breath tickling his lips.  He didn't know it was possible to experience so many sensations all at once; his entire body seemed to have come alive, thrumming like a plucked guitar string, and it was terrible and thrilling and Paul never wanted it to stop, but he feared what would happen if it didn't. 

"John?" 

John jerked his hand away, and Paul's skin tingled with the loss of sensation.

"Just checking," John said vaguely.  He pulled away completely, giving Paul room, and Paul hadn't realized their legs had been twisted together until chill of loneliness swept between his knees. 

And – _oh God_ – he was hard; he was hard in bed with a fucking boy; what the fuck was wrong with him?  Paul rolled over so quickly he nearly threw himself off onto the floor, saved only by John's arm looping securely around his waist.  Paul pulled his knees up defensively, shame burning his cheeks – if John knew, he'd leave right now and never come back.  Paul wouldn't blame him for it, either. 

"All right?" John asked quietly.  His voice sounded strangely fragile, almost _hurt_. 

Paul nodded rapidly.  He didn't trust himself speak, not with John's hand still resting on the dip of his waist, warm and solid and so achingly _close_ to where Paul really needed it.  _Shit,_ what was he thinking?  John would kill him, John would absolutely kill him; somehow that thought hurt worse than the physical evidence of the perversion between his legs. 

"I'll be right back," Paul choked out.  He grabbed John's wrist and freed himself, sliding out of bed without looking back. 

He relieved himself in the bathroom, locked away and sitting on the closed toilet, stroking himself hard and fast.  He tried not to think; he just wanted to get it over with and go back to bed, pretend that nothing had happened.  But his head was filled with music, with John's smile, the feeling of John's breath against his ear as he sang better than Jerry Lewis, better than _Elvis_.  Then – just for an instant – he imagined John's hand on him instead of his own.  Paul came with a muffled sob, and he pressed his eyes against the heels of his hands to hold back the tears he could feel beginning to form. 

There was something wrong with him; something seriously wrong.  He didn't know what had caused this, or _why_ , but he had to make it stop.  His friendship with John had just reached a level of comfort that Paul had always longed for – John was rapidly becoming one of his best friends, and he wasn't going to let himself ruin it. 

It was a long time before he let himself return to his room, quietly shutting the door behind him and locking it.  He'd hoped John would be asleep, but he could sense eyes on him the second he entered the room, and his skin crawled. 

John didn't speak until Paul climbed back into bed, carefully keeping his back to John.

"I'm sorry," John offered, barely a whisper. 

"No," Paul said quickly.  "No, that was – you didn't do anything."  

John made a soft sound in reply, his fingertips brushing down the center of Paul's back, and that was it.  They didn't touch again, didn't speak, and Paul kept his back to him for the remainder of the night. 

***

When Paul awoke the following morning, he could sense he was alone.  The bed seemed markedly colder, despite the cocoon of blankets he had wrapped around himself.  Warily, he reached out a hand, his fingers sliding against nothing but cool sheets. 

His heart fell.  " _Shit_." 

"If you've got to go – _go_.  Don't lie there and complain about it." 

Paul sat up sharply, looking blearily around the room.  John sat on the floor, fully dressed, and it was only then that Paul noticed the soft music drifting from the record player beside him.  John grinned up at him, lifting his shoulders.  "Got bored.  You don't mind, do you?" 

"No."  Paul flopped back over, smiling softly.  "Not at all." 

Paul dozed as John swapped out records, the sun shining brightly through the window, painting stripes of golden warmth across his face.  Nothing had changed, and Paul had never been more comfortable than he was in that moment.  He wanted to wake up to this every morning – the soft sounds of John digging through his things and milling about the room, a different song drifting from the record player each time Paul opened his eyes. 

John eventually tired of it and returned to bed with a thick book, collapsing heavily next to Paul.  A wave of panic caused Paul to wake up fully and he pushed himself up on his elbows, surveying the room.  The bookshelf was still in order, only a little gap proving that John had taken anything at all – and it wasn't the journal.

"Nicholas Nickleby," Paul sighed, relieved.  He propped his pillow against the wall and leaned against it, looking over John's shoulder.  "Mum gave me that.  It's good."

"Yeah?"  John didn't look up from the book, licking his thumb to turn the page.  "You read the whole thing?"

"I felt I should.  Y'know.  After…"

"How long did it take?" 

Paul shrugged.  "Few months, I guess.  It's worth it, though." 

"A few months?" John laid the novel against his chest, frowning.  "I'd forget the beginning by the time I got to the end." 

"Then you'd just have to read it again, I suppose." 

John ended up staying at Paul's for the better part of the day, until Jim's disapproving glances finally ran him off.  He took the book with him, with Paul's approval – Paul didn't lend his books often, especially the ones from his mother.  With John, though, he wasn't afraid of not getting it back.

They started spending more time together after that, going to one another's houses after school and playing records, trying to write down all the lyrics to the songs they'd heard on the radio and piece together how to play them.  Sometimes, though, they'd attempt to write original songs.  They would sit across from each other with notebooks in hand, frowning down at their pens and waiting for the right words to appear.  It was slow, and generally unsuccessful, but there was a certain comfort in it anyway.  They'd toss ideas around freely, soaking up the afternoon sun and sipping at their tea (or a beer, usually, in John's case). 

It was during one of these days, as they were penning the words to a song they were tentatively calling 'Too Bad About Sorrows', that Paul announced, "I've a friend I want you to meet." 

John cocked his head, scribbling a line on the shared paper between them.  "' _But I can't forget_ ' or ' _but I'll never forget_ '?" 

"The first one.  Anyway, he's called George.  You'd like him." 

John hummed in response, lifting up his glasses with a fist to rub at his eye.  "How old is he?"

"Dunno," Paul lied. 

"If you don't know him well enough to know how old he is, why do you think you know him well enough to know I'd like him?" 

"He plays, too.  He's really good."

At this, John laid down his pen, finally giving Paul his full attention.  "I'm not having one of your little schoolmates in the band, Paulie." 

"Why not?  With Pete and Rod gone, I thought maybe–"

"Thought wrong, didn't you?  One baby face is enough, I think." 

Paul sighed, turning his attention back to the song and plucking out a few chords.  John had no intention of listening now, that much was clear.  Paul simply nodded in reply – he could let John think he'd won, but Paul had no intention of letting it go.  George had been asking him about the band during school, and every time they'd practiced together, George spoke as if he was already in it, excited and ready to meet the others.  Paul wasn't going to let him down.

All he could do now was arrange a chance meeting, let John see for himself how good George was.  It wouldn't be hard to get them to notice each other after school, but the meeting might be more effective if John were already experiencing the adrenaline high from playing a show.   

*** 

"No."

It was December, and the band had just finished a show at Wilson Hall – one that George had finally been able to attend.  The three of them stood outside the venue now, John suave as ever in his leather jacket and greased hair.  George stared at him, speechless, in almost embarrassing awe.  Paul remembered that feeling distinctly; being near John for the first time, struck by the sheer _presence_ of him.  It seemed funny, now, that they could be so close.  They stood shoulder to shoulder, their elbows brushing comfortably, a united front against the world – and, by the looks of it, against George.

Paul shifted closer to the younger boy, frowning up at John.  "Why not?" he demanded.  "You haven't even heard him play."  

"Don't need to," John said simply, lighting up a cigarette behind a cupped hand.  He glanced at George, the flame making his eyes glint with light.  "Sorry, Georgie.  Maybe when you're older." 

"John–"

"It's fine," George interrupted, eager to please.  "I understand."

"He understands, Paulie!" John crowed, slapping Paul's shoulder.  Paul staggered forward with the impact, casting a glare at him – John's careless, macho facade was securely in place.  It was as repellent to Paul as it was attractive.  "Not as dumb as he looks, is he?" 

"Not so dumb, yourself," George returned casually.  "Or maybe you are, if you turn people down without so much as an audition." 

Paul gaped at him, surprised.  He barely had time to worry about what John's reaction would be before the other boy started laughing, loudly, lifting his beer. 

"You're all right, George," John said approvingly.  George beamed in reply, and for now, that was as much as Paul could hope for. 

For the next several days, all George talked about was how cool John was, his sideboards and his hair and his _band_.  Paul was rather pleased with the outcome; he was glad George liked John, that he saw all the things in him that Paul did.  There was a tiny part of him, however, that was jealous, almost angry – he wanted George to like John, just not that _much_.  Because what if, eventually, John started to like him back? 

That shouldn't matter, Paul told himself, but he didn't want George to like John the same way that he did.  What they had was special, and as much as he liked George, he never wanted George to experience it – the tight humming in his chest when John was near, like two notes played in harmony; the way John's smile melted him to the core, the way they could lean against each other and know that there was nothing queer about it. 

That thought stopped Paul in his tracks.  It was something he'd been avoiding thinking about since the first time John stayed at his house, and it wedged an uncomfortable ache in Paul's chest.  An idea came to him, unbidden – if John were going to be attracted to a boy, that boy should be _Paul_. 

He felt ill, suddenly; perverted and _wrong_. 

But it was true.  God damn him, it was true. 

And if that made him queer, well… Nothing was ever likely to come of it anyway.  It was a secret, a mistake, one that would never see the light of day.  For as questionable as John's behavior could be, he loved girls, and it was abundantly clear.  This came as more of a relief than disappointment; Paul was okay with John being with girls, of course he was, that was _normal_. 

The thought of him liking anyone else – that was what caused Paul to lie awake at night, pain twisting in his chest. 

*** 

Paul had to engineer a few more meetings over the next couple of months before John relented.  As Paul had suspected, all John needed was to hear George really play – John had heard a bit of it during their second meeting, but with the rest of the band there, John had been distractible, barely listening.  This time, on the empty upper deck of a bus, Paul instructed George to play 'Raunchy'. 

John scoffed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.  "If you can play that, I might actually be impressed."  Paul shot him a look that was meant to be scolding, though when John grinned at him, he couldn't help but smile back. 

George watched the exchange curiously and Paul waved him off, telling him, "Go on, then." 

With a shrug, George began to play.  He had none of the natural charm and grace John had – he looked almost silly as he rocked with his oversized guitar, his hand crawling along the fingerboard like one of those skinny spiders with the long, threadlike legs.  John, however, was openly amazed, his narrow eyes widening in surprise.

That familiar bite of jealousy made Paul kick lightly at John's ankle, and harder when John ignored him.  Paul lifted his eyebrows innocently when John glanced at him, which earned him a soft laugh, and that was enough to soothe Paul's misplaced nerves.  John bumped his knee against Paul's and turned his attention back to George, keeping their legs pressed together.

When Paul got home that evening, he pulled the journal from the shelf with barely a thought, though he simply held it in his lap for a long time, smoothing his hand over the blank page.  There was too much going on in his head, so many thoughts he could never admit to, his jealousy and elation that George was finally in.  But John – he couldn't get his mind off _John_.

It was beginning to feel like the time Paul had first discovered girls – he couldn't get them out of his mind, always fantasizing and searching out any excuse for physical contact.  The warmth of John's thigh pressed against his own for the entire bus ride was still so vivid, so overwhelmingly _real_ , even though they had parted ways nearly an hour ago. 

Frustrated, Paul chewed on the end of pen for a long time, before jotting down the words that kept swimming through his mind: " _In spite of all the heartache that you may cause me, I'll do anything for you, anything you want me to, if you'll be true to me_."      

*** 

John didn't invite Eric to the next practice, or the practice after that.  Before Paul fully realized what had happened, Eric was out of the band entirely.  They lost Len not long after, and suddenly The Quarrymen consisted of only John, Paul, George, and Colin, who was actually the last person Paul had expected to stick around. 

The gigs were coming in less frequently, and they only had one real one in early March – though the club was illegal (and somewhat creepy, if Paul were honest, with its single flickering light bulb in the dark, overcrowded room).  It was something of a relief when it was closed down the following month, if only because it meant they'd never have to perform there again. 

In the meantime, John and Paul were left with more time to write, to practice new chords. Though Paul had only joked about it several months ago, he and George took to sneaking over to the college and spending their lunch break with John.  It was perfect – the days seemed to flow into each other, each one as fun and carefree as the last, and it felt like a dream Paul never wanted to end.  He had his two best friends, their music, and what felt like a future full of possibilities.  It didn't seem possible for life to get any better. 

Then came the day that Paul realized the words he'd written in his journal were part of a song, and he finished it out in a single afternoon and played it for John the following day.  They were at Paul's house, alone in the living room.  They sat on opposite ends of the couch, facing each other with their legs meeting in the middle, Paul's feet on top of John's. 

Paul couldn't meet John's eyes as he played, focusing instead on the line of John's neck, just visible over the collar of his jacket.  This song was for John, in every sense.  And a quiet, shameful part of Paul wished that John would notice, would realize that these words were meant for him, and then –

Paul didn't know what he wanted to happen after that. 

The thought of being physically intimate with John, _kissing_ him – it was so far off and impossible that Paul couldn't even picture it properly, much less actively hope for it.  He began to question why he had written the song at all, and his fingers tripped along the strings, making his face burn.  John lifted an eyebrow, though he didn't comment until Paul stumbled through to the end. 

"Not bad.  It'd be better without the buzzy chords and slippy-slidey fingers, y'know, but–"

Paul jabbed his heel against John's shin.  "Shut up." 

"I'm serious, Macca, it's good.  We should perform it." 

The thought of performing it made Paul's chest go tight; he could barely sing it to John.  Standing in front of a crowd of people and confessing that he'd do anything for John – he couldn't do it.  He _refused_ to do it.  "If we perform it, you have to sing it."

John blinked at him.  "Why?" 

"Suits your voice better, doesn't it?" 

"Most things do," John relented.  "Took you long enough to notice." 

They left it at that, and their practices began to focus on trying to make the song work with more than one guitar.  To Paul's surprise, John was mostly quiet during these practices, letting him take the lead over his own song.  He and George both contributed to what it lacked, however; George decided it needed a solo and came up with one on the spot.  Paul almost said no, because John was too impressed with it, but it was _good_ , and Paul couldn't deny that. 

Still, it was missing something.  They worked on it for weeks until John finally hopped on the piano and filled in the missing pieces.  Later, Paul brought in his friend John Lowe to fill the piano spot.  They practiced it intensely, and in Paul's mind, it felt like they were real professionals – this was his song, his words, yet everyone was contributing and following his instructions until it was perfect. 

And the whole time, he had John backing him up, offering suggestions and supporting him with the softest of smiles. 

***

By the end of June, John was getting restless with the lack of gigs, which led to him ending group practices early, if not cancelling them entirely. 

"What the fuck are we even practicing for?" he demanded one evening.  He and Paul were at George's house, John's new favorite practice spot, due to the glasses of whiskey provided by Mrs Harrison.  John would quite often get more when she wasn't looking, which was dangerous for his mood. 

Paul sighed heavily, setting his glass aside.  They'd been through this countless times over the past few weeks.  "You know Nigel is looking for some, Johnny, it's just a bad time of year or something." 

" _Bad time of year_ ," John scoffed.  "Bad time of – what does that even mean?  If we aren't getting gigs in Liddypool, then we need to fucking leave."  

"Where would we go?" George asked indulgently.  Paul always tried to unwind him, talk sense, though George's approach usually involved letting John talk himself out.  He wasn't sure if either method actually worked, but George's was often more fun. 

"Does it matter?"  John paced around the room as he spoke, gesturing violently with his hands.  "We can just fucking hitchhike, y'know, see how far we can get – play on the side of the road for money if we have to, keep going until someone will hire us." 

"And if no one hires us?" Paul asked.  "Then what?  Give up and come home?" 

" _Someone_ would, Paul.  If not, we'd get famous anyway.  The Hitchhikers' Travelling Roadside Band!  We'd go all around the world, sticking out our thumbs and making music, everyone would know us." 

"Places would probably put us up for free, too," George added in.  "They'd want us to come through their town.  We'd be rich without all the mess of actual money." 

"Right!  He's got it!" 

Paul sighed, leaning back on his hands.  "So that's it?  You two are taking off tonight?" 

John stopped his pacing, frowning at Paul darkly.  "You'd have to come, of course." 

"My dad would never let me and you know it." 

"Christ," John groaned.  He stooped down, offering Paul his hands.  "You don't get it, do you?  We'd be running away.  You wouldn't need permission." 

Paul chewed on his lip for a moment, glancing warily at George before taking John's hands.  John pulled him up slowly, their eyes locked together, and Paul's breath caught.  "Where to first?" he whispered.

"Paris," John replied, just as quietly, searching Paul's eyes. 

"Paris.  Okay."  Paul squeezed his hands, his heart racing when John squeezed back. 

"We've another option," George mused.  Paul yanked his hands away, staggering back.  "We could make a recording, y'know – a real record.  We know enough songs." 

It was probably a good idea, but in that moment, all Paul wanted to do was run off to Paris with John – just the two of them.  He could feel John staring at him, waiting for his input; he had the distinct feeling that if he said no, that they should go hitchhiking after all, John would agree with him.  

"Yeah," he stammered.  "Yeah, that's – we should." 

When he looked back at John, he was expecting to see disappointment, but John's mood had already shifted.  He was all business now, settling down on the couch with a pen and a page of a magazine he'd unceremoniously ripped out for his own use.  "We have to do ' _In Spite of All the Danger_ '," he decided, scribbling it down.  "Obviously." 

"We've worked enough at it," George agreed. 

"What else?"  John directed this at Paul, blinking up at him. 

Paul hesitated, struck with the whiplash that was John's ever-changing mood.  As if sensing this, John's expression softened, just slightly.  "Come 'ead, Paulie, don't look so upset.  We'll go to Paris one day."    

Paul waved off the comment and joined him on the couch.  The three of them began discussing options, John jotting down the ideas.  John eventually decided that it _had_ to be Buddy Holly, no matter what, and all of Paul and George's Elvis and Little Richard suggestions were crossed off the list without argument. 

When they arrived at ' _That'll Be the Day_ ', they all knew at once that it was the one.  The three of them exchanged grins, and John's hand landed on Paul's thigh, giving it a single, enthusiastic shake. 

"To the top, boys!" 

*** 

The actual process of recording a song was a lot less exciting than Paul had hoped, nor was it the all day affair he'd prepared himself for.  They were in and out in less than half an hour, and they didn't even get to leave with the disc in hand.  Even with Colin and John Lowe pitching in, they'd come up short, and John had to return with Julia to pay the final amount.  It should have been humiliating, but Paul had never been happier to see her. 

She invited the five of them back to her house for drinks, and they played the record at her eager insistence. 

"Listen to you!" she crooned during ' _That'll Be the Day_ '.  She cupped John's face, swaying her hips to the music.  "You're putting Buddy Holly to shame!" 

John laughed, shaking his head out of her grasp.  He caught her hand and twirled her, her giggling chiming over the music.  It was nice watching them, and Paul caught himself doing so multiple times.  It was hard not to – John's smile was wide and uninhibited, dancing unsteadily and following his mother's lead.  He wanted to see that smile on John's face forever; he should never be any less happy than he was in this moment. 

The song ended and John flipped the disc over, starting ' _In Spite of All the Danger_ '.  "This one's Paul's," he told her, and she turned her proud gaze on Paul. 

"Well," she said.  "I'm surrounded by brilliance.  What an honor." 

She reached for him and Paul took her hands.  She twirled against his chest, looping his arm around her waist.  "I bet you had some lovely lady in mind, didn't you?" 

Paul's face flushed and he looked away quickly, focusing intently on George, who was sitting in the corner with Colin, talking quietly.  "Er – no.  No it was…" 

He made the mistake of glancing at John, who had his hands shoved in his pockets, grinning like a child.  His hair was slipping from its position, a few messy strands dangling in his delicate, angular face, and he was beautiful – just like that.  Paul squeezed his eyes closed, swallowing hard.

"No one," he said thickly.  "I just – I made it up." 

God, he'd really done it, hadn't he?  He'd written a song – a _love song_ – for a boy.  For _John_.  And now it existed forever, a constant reminder of how far he'd fallen, how completely messed up he was.  It seemed so obvious suddenly, and Paul's gaze danced nervously around the room, looking for the recognition; for someone to stop and realize.  Even George's friendly gaze seemed accusatory, as if he'd known from the beginning.  Paul's throat clenched warningly.

"Excuse me," he muttered, pushing away from Julia.  He hurried down the hall, hand clamped over his mouth, and all but threw himself into the bathroom, kicking the door closed behind him. 

He collapsed to his knees in front of the toilet, breathing heavily, waiting for the sickness to overtake him.  In the distance, he could hear the muffled sound of the music starting up again, back on ' _That'll Be the Day_ ', and he groaned softly.  He needed to be away from John's voice for awhile, needed to be away from John entirely – he had to work through this, whatever it was that was wrong with him. 

It felt like he'd played some horrible trick on everyone by writing that song, by _forcing John to sing it_ , letting him believe it was some innocent little tune he'd come up with on a whim.  He was disgusting – this whole thing was disgusting.  Paul had never been more ashamed of himself.  He sat back against the wall, burying his face in his hands.  He couldn't even take it back, or apologize, because then everyone would _know_. 

The sound of the door creaking open caught his attention, and there – of course – stood John. 

"Hey, Macca," he said quietly.  "Are you all right?" 

Paul nodded, raking his hands through his hair.  He forced a smile.  "Yeah, fine.  I'll be right there." 

John frowned, hesitating in the doorway.  Rather than leaving, he let himself in, locking the door behind him.  Paul's heart was pounding, a thin layer of sweat breaking out along his hairline.  This was the last thing he needed; for once in his life, he just wished John would _go away_. 

"You don't look fine."  John sat down beside him, touching the backs of his fingers against Paul's cheek.  "Are you sick?  You don't feel warm."  He paused, smiling.  "But what do I know?  Could be burning up and I wouldn't know the difference." 

Paul couldn't help but offer him a weak smile in return.  How could he even begin to explain?  Of course he wasn't running a fever, but that didn't make him any less sick – he was fucking _mentally ill_.  John should be as far away from him as possible. 

"I'm fine," Paul said again.  John turned his hand, cupping Paul's cheek fully. 

"I'm proud of you, y'know," he said softly.  He gazed at Paul intently, his eyes so uncharacteristically soft and open – he seemed vulnerable, almost.  _Scared_.  His thumb drifted carefully along Paul's cheekbone and Paul shivered, his eyelids fluttering.  It was getting hard to breathe, his lungs tight, his skin prickling under his clothing. 

"For what?" Paul whispered.  He kept his eyes on John's, watching with detached fascination the subtle display of emotions. 

"Dunno.  Today.  The song.  _Everything_."

Paul wished he would continue, but John was locked up tight, carefully protecting something that he didn't seem ready to share.  He was waiting for something, that much was clear, and Paul didn't know what to do.  He was feeling things he wasn't supposed to feel, his body alive with energy that should never stem from another boy – he had to leave, that was his only option. 

"John."  He reached up slowly, clutching John's sleeve in a loose fist.  "Johnny, I–" 

Whatever John was waiting for, that must have been it.  He sucked in a breath, and before Paul could fully process what was happening, John had his face cradled between both hands and was pressing their lips together firmly, a shared spark of softness blooming between them. 

For a moment, Paul's mind went blank.  He stared at John's closed eyelids in bafflement, as if he were watching this play out from far away.  He was hyperaware of John's eyelashes, long and pretty against his cheeks; his thick eyebrows pulled together in concentration.  He could feel the tip of John's nose pressing into his skin as he clumsily tried to align their lips.

Distantly, Paul heard himself groan, and it wasn't until John echoed it that Paul returned to his senses.  John was stroking his face reverently, his hands soft and warm, holding him as if he were something precious. John pulled away just enough to drop quick, fluttering kisses all around Paul's mouth before returning to his lips again, lingering there with a plaintive whimper.  This wasn't supposed to be happening.  It was bad enough that Paul had dared to even consider it; he never meant to drag John down with him. 

"Stop," Paul moaned against John's mouth.  He reached shaking hands into John's jacket to clutch at the front of his t-shirt.  He could feel John's heart thundering against his fists, the heat of his jacket so warm and inviting that Paul wanted to snake his arms around him to feel it fully.  "God, Johnny – _stop_."   

John pulled away, resting his forehead against Paul's, staring at him questioningly.  And _fuck_ he was beautiful.  Paul couldn't help himself; he tentatively traced his fingers down John's reddened cheek, his heart soaring when John smiled shyly.  "What is it?" John whispered, searching Paul's eyes desperately.  "Is this okay?"

"I…" Paul trailed off, biting his lip.  It tasted different, more strongly of beer and cigarettes.  Paul whimpered softly, realizing he was tasting what lingered of John.  "No.  That is – I mean – it's _not_."  John was pulling away slowly as Paul spoke, putting a cold space between them, the vulnerability sliding away behind an unreadable mask.  "It's just – I'm not fucking _queer_ , all right?  I'm not." 

Just for a moment, the mask slipped, and John looked a little lost.  "I thought–"

"Thought wrong, didn't you?" Paul interrupted coldly.  The look on John's face made Paul wish he'd just lash out and hit him – anything would be better than this, this utterly humiliated look of confusion.  It was gone in an instant, skillfully hidden away behind a dark look of anger.

"Right."  John stood up sharply, steadying himself on the wall.  "Glad we cleared that up, then." 

He left without another word, slamming the door behind him with a deafening crack.  Paul flinched, tears pricking at his eyes.  This was for the best – for both of them.  Couldn't John see that Paul had corrupted him?  Couldn't he see that this was the only way to _fix_ it? 

In the distance, Paul could still hear tinny sound of John singing: " _I'll do anything for you, anything you want me to, if you'll be true to me_."

This time, Paul couldn't keep himself from throwing up. 

*** 

After Paul left Julia's house that night, letting himself out with barely a glance at John, it was as if John disappeared out of his life entirely.  There was no word about practice, nor had John stopped by to work on chords or write with him – not that Paul really expected him to. 

In the days that passed, Paul couldn't get the kiss out of his mind.  It played through again and again, skipping like a broken record, isolated moments jumping forward with vivid clarity – John's fingers in his hair, the heat of their mingled breaths, the soft sounds John had made.  Paul missed it, _longed_ for it, and that was exactly why he couldn't reach out to John.  If he did, he'd apologize.  If he did, he'd make sure it happened again. 

It was a feeling unlike any he'd ever experienced before.  He'd had girlfriends in the past, and though none of them had been very serious, the physical attraction had been real.  He had enjoyed kissing them, touching the softness of their skin and smelling their perfume – but it lacked the thrill, it didn't give him the rush of nerves like missing the last step on a flight of stairs.  John was the only one who could knock him off balance with a single look, make him feel like he was falling through the clouds, and it wasn't until John kissed him that another element had been added: _security_.  He'd been falling, and suddenly John was there to catch him, and Paul had never felt more _alive_. 

Maybe it was only the excitement of doing something wrong – something _illegal_ – but Paul craved it like nicotine.  Maybe the appeal was not only John, but the danger he promised. 

' _In spite of all the danger_ ,' Paul had promised him – the lyrics creeping into his mind with the chill of a forgotten nightmare.  It hadn't been a promise he intended to keep, evidently, since he'd ended their relationship before it even had a chance to start. 

Paul shook his head, disgusted with himself.  It didn't _need_ to start, it wasn't _supposed_ to.  Until he could learn to stop thinking that way, it was best to maintain his distance. 

It wasn't until nearly a week after they'd made their record that Paul finally got some news about the band – about _John_. 

It was midday, the sky a light, churning gray, just beginning to sprinkle the first bits of what promised to be a powerful storm.  Paul had spent the morning attempting to put together some new songs, though they all ended up being about John in some form or another, and each time Paul realized it he'd crumple up the lyrics and start again.  The pattern was only broken by an insistent knocking at the door, the type of knocking that seemed reserved for bad news. 

Paul set his papers aside and approached the door, opening it warily.  Nigel stood there, hands in his pockets, his dampened hair sagging in his face.  _Oh God, this is it_ , Paul thought; John had sent the manager to tell him that he was out, or that the band was no more.  _How professional_. 

"Have you heard from John?" Nigel asked, uncharacteristically solemn.  He wouldn't meet Paul's eyes, staring just past him at a spot on the floor. 

Paul shook his head numbly, his hand beginning to shake where it still clung to the door handle.  "What's happened?"

"It's his mum.  She was – she died.  A few days ago." Nigel smiled bizarrely, a faraway look on his face, and Paul felt as though he'd been punched, all the air leaving his lungs in a stuttered rush.  "I guess it was my fault.  Anyway.  Thought you should know."  Nigel reached out, clutching Paul's arm for just a moment.  "Probably won't be having practice for a while." 

"I don't _care_ about practice!" Paul snapped, broken out of his daze.  He felt the familiar ache in his own heart, the throb of a wound that had never healed; this was too familiar, too much like the day he'd gotten the news of his own mother's death.  He still remembered how it felt, how it seemed like the whole world had ended – but it had been surreal, too, like he could have her back if he'd just ask nicely enough.  He remembered how wrecked he'd been, how confused and upset and _isolated_.

"How's John?" he demanded, grabbing Nigel's shoulders.  He shook him, once, adamant.  "Is he okay?" 

It was the worst question he could have asked; of course John wasn't okay, he'd probably never be okay again.  Paul knew that better than anyone.  But John was a loose cannon at the best of times; Paul couldn't begin to fathom how he might be handling this. 

"No," Nigel answered.  "No, he's – he won't see anyone."

"He'll see me," Paul decided.  He made to push past Nigel, but the other boy grabbed his arm tightly, holding him in place.  "I know what it's like, all right?  _I know_."

"I know.  But he's not – if you try to see him now, he'll just fight you.  He's been pissed out of his mind since it happened, getting into it with anyone who so much as looks at him."  Nigel sighed, releasing him.  "Let him be, all right?  Give him his space.  He needs it right now." 

Paul didn't buy that, not for a second.  He'd demanded his space, too, after his own mother died.  But there'd always been a part of him, deep down, that had hoped someone would appear anyway and give him all the answers.  Paul might not have had the answers John needed, but at least he could understand.  At least he could offer the shred of hope that, somehow, with time, the pain would become manageable. 

Paul, however, was also probably the last person in the world John wanted to see.  As much as Paul wanted to go to him, to make amends and _be there_ , he didn't want to cause undue stress. 

So Paul left him alone. 

He saw John exactly once during the days that followed, though he didn't think John saw him.  It was late, and he was on his way home from George's, having just gotten off the bus to begin the walk toward Forthlin Road.  Rain pelted down around him, slapping so hard against the pavement that he could barely hear his own thoughts.  He intended to run straight home, but as he pulled his jacket over his head to protect himself from the stinging drops against his face, a distant yelling caught his attention. 

Through the blurred haze of the rain, he could see figures standing in the illuminated front of a pub across the street, and his heart stuttered.  Paul would recognize John anywhere, even without being able to see his features; his profile was as distinct as ever, his angular face and his hooked nose, his hair plastered to his face.  Across from him were two men – large sailor types – and while Paul couldn't make out their words, their tones said enough. 

John yelled something back, his words incoherent and slurred, throwing down a bottle that shattered loudly against the street.  Paul's chest constricted in fear – John wouldn't stand a chance against one of those men, much less _two_.  He'd just started to cross the street to help (not that he could be much help, but at least it'd be something) when one of the men laughed, gesturing rudely and waving John off.  They returned inside, leaving John there in the rain, visibly trembling with the lasting effects of his rage.   

Paul stood there, one foot in the road, almost, _almost_ , deciding to go to him anyway.  He turned before he could give into the urge, casting one last longing look over his shoulder.  The image of John standing there in front of the pub, soaked and miserable, hands tucked in his pockets and curled in on himself like an abandoned kitten would stay with Paul forever – a vivid mental photograph that wouldn't fade with time; a constant, aching reminder of the lost, fragile boy he wanted to protect. 

*** 

Precisely one week after the recording session, the _kiss_ , Paul still hadn't heard from John.  It was Sunday, and Paul was awakened by the sunlight pouring in his bedroom window, making the black behind his eyelids glow red.  Before he even opened his eyes, he knew he was going to see John today.  He'd had his space; Paul feared that if he were left alone too long, he might begin to feel abandoned – if he didn't feel that way already.  It didn't matter what Nigel said – if it would make John feel better, even just for a second, to hit him, then fine.  Paul didn't care.  Sparing himself a black eye or a bloody lip wasn't worth leaving John to sort this out on his own. 

His dad was already up by the time Paul got downstairs, sitting at the table with Mike, who was eating a bowl of cereal.  Jim peered at Paul over the top of his newspaper, frowning. 

"Where are you off to?" 

"John's."  Paul pulled on his shoes hastily, not bothering to even untie them.  He felt strangely rushed, like if he were going to do this, it had to be now or not at all. 

"I don't think so," Jim said casually, turning his attention back to the paper. 

" _Dad!_ " Paul stared at his father in horror, struggling for words to explain.  John needed him, now more than ever, and Paul wasn't going to leave him alone for another second.  "You don't understand.  I _have_ to." 

Jim lowered the paper once more, frowning sternly.  "You've been so adamant about giving him his space – you can't decide to see him now just to get out visiting with your Aunt Jin today." 

Paul's heart sank; he'd completely forgotten.  His dad had said something about it last week, but with the excitement of the recording session and the emotional turmoil that had followed, the plans had vanished from his mind entirely.  His disappointment must have been evident on his face, because Jim sighed tiredly, pulling out Paul's chair at the table and gesturing for him to sit. 

"C'mon," he coaxed.  "John'll be here when we get back." 

It was almost funny, in an abstract, macabre way, that he'd used that specific phrase. 

When they got back, Paul went straight to Mimi's house, bumping into her on the front walkway.  She had a handkerchief over her mouth, barely muffling a quiet hysteria.  Her eyes rimmed in red; her usually perfect makeup dripping down her cheeks.

John, in fact, _wasn't_ there.  He would never be there again. 

Later, Paul would only remember fragments of his conversation with Mimi.  She'd just gotten off the phone when he'd arrived, had found out that John had gotten into it at some pub again.  Only this time, whoever he'd picked a fight with hadn't simply dismissed him.  He had angered the wrong person and they'd fought back. Though they claimed John had only slipped, his head had cracked against the corner of the sidewalk.

And that was it. 

John was gone.  He'd died alone, abandoned, thinking that the world hated him – that _Paul_ hated him. 

Paul didn't accompany Mimi to the hospital.  He went straight home, fighting away the thoughts of what John might look like; skull crushed in, his skin pale and grey and spattered with blood.  Something inside Paul broke at the thought, shattering like glass, and the broken edges seemed to cut up his insides – the pain real and sharp.  He bit hard at his lip, tears burning in his eyes.

This wasn't real.  This couldn't be real.  He'd just seen John – he had so many things he needed to tell him.  There we so many things they were supposed to _do_. 

Paul managed to hold himself together until he got home, pushed past his family and locked himself away in his room.  _Nicholas Nickelby_ was still on the floor, the spine cracked with recent overuse, right where John had left it when he'd given it back – " _Bloody boring, that was. What else do you have?_ " – and the first few tears escaped from Paul's eyes.  His entire body shook with rage – it was dad's fault, it was _his own_ fault. 

Paul threw himself onto his bed and screamed into his pillow, tears leaking out freely now and soaking the fabric.  He screamed until his throat went raw, the bitter, coppery tang of blood painting his tongue.  He screamed until he couldn't scream anymore, his fist colliding against his mattress again and again and _again_.  He could have saved him.  If he'd just ignored his dad, if he'd just run away – _"You don't get it, do you?  We'd be running away.  You wouldn't need permission."_ – John would still be here. 

"We were supposed to go to Paris!" Paul yelled into the pillow, his voice no more than a quiet, sandpapery rasp.  The journal sat at Paul's bedside and he snatched violently, throwing it across the room and ripping at his hair.  He wanted to crawl out of his own skin, leave behind the pain that flowed through every part of him – he wanted to rip open his head and make himself forget. 

" _We were supposed to go to the toppermost!_ "  The words hurt, physically and emotionally alike. It was only when the journal smacked against the wall and slid to the floor that Paul was distracted from the pain – if only for a moment.

It landed with the cover open, just as it had done the first time. 

' _Live each day as you want_ ', it beckoned, and Paul found himself strangely entranced by it.  He was hardly aware of himself when he crossed the room, grabbing the journal from the floor.  He flipped through it violently, the pages blurred with tears he refused to let fall. 

As soon as he reached a blank page, he shoved the journal against the wall and began to write, the words spilling out nearly on top of each other, his anger blinding him to the futility of his actions. 

>   _20 July 1958_
> 
> _Today I skipped out on going to Aunt Jin's and went to John's house.  He wasn't mad at me at all but I apologized anyway, I apologized for everything that I had done to him, and I said all the things I needed to say._
> 
> _We spent the whole day together, and it was exactly what he needed.  He told me about his mum and I told him about mine, and we spent a lot time sharing stories and crying together, and it was good for both of us.  He didn't go out and fight anymore after that, and before I left, he thanked me._
> 
> _He told me that I had saved him._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! This chapter really did not want to be written. According to my outline, this was supposed to take them all the way through Hamburg, but, well, I eventually had to throw out those plans and let this write itself. Hopefully the result was worth the wait! I have to thank my new beta, Lilith, who dealt with me sending multiple copies of this to her and crying nonstop because I couldn't make up my mind. You're such a trooper bless your soul. 
> 
> I also want to reiterate that I don't intend to abandon this. I have the whole story outlined, and I still have a lot of big plans, so it would take a lot for me to give up on it. I talk about my progress (or lack thereof) nearly nonstop on my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/yerbluesie), so if you're ever in doubt, please check there for the status of the next chapter. (Of course, you're always free to ask here, in the comments, if you don't feel like digging through my whining.) 
> 
> Finally, I come bearing goodies! I've compiled two playlists for this fic, both of which are available on 8tracks. [The first](http://8tracks.com/yerbluesie/love-like-yours-will-surely-come-my-way/) is a collection of every song mentioned in the fic thus far, and will be updated as the fic progresses. [The second](http://8tracks.com/yerbluesie/and-there-s-no-time/) is basically just what I listen to for inspiration, but I thought it might be fun to share, too.

Paul couldn't remember anything after he'd finished writing.  He must have somehow found the will to put the journal away, to change clothes and get into bed.  And he must have slept – the sun was shining through the window, bright and warm, though it felt to Paul like a distant sort of dream.  His eyelashes were still damp and sticky, his throat raw and coppery.  Last night seemed like a faraway memory, though his body ached as if it had been mere seconds ago.  Paul squeezed his eyes closed, the light making the darkness behind his eyelids glow red. 

His throat went tight and he slid a hand over his eyes.  Yesterday, he'd been lying here, just like this, so confident that he'd go see John – it never crossed his mind that he might never have the opportunity again.  He never could have imagined that just 24 hours later he'd still be here, knowing that he'd never see John again.

A tight whimper escaped from somewhere deep in Paul's aching throat, a plaintive sound like a wounded animal.  He thought for a dizzying moment that he might cry again – his eyes burned with it, his chest tight and shuddering – but he'd never cried so much in his life as he did last night, and he'd run out of tears to spare.  His body jerked around a single, muffled sob, and Paul wiped impatiently at his dry eyes.  His arm felt heavy as lead. 

He knew he ought to get up – that he'd made a right fool of himself the night before, bursting into the house in tears, running upstairs and screaming like a little girl.  He'd done this before, with his mother.  He could pick up the pieces and do it again.  From his current position, though, it hardly seemed possible; he'd never felt smaller, more isolated.  John had fit perfectly into the void in his heart that Paul thought would never feel anything again.  And now, just as Paul had started to get used to feeling whole again, the wound was ripped open anew, deeper and more painful than ever before. 

Still, Paul pushed himself up, his arms trembling with the effort.  A somewhat selfish part of him wanted to fall back down, to sleep forever if he could.  He was exhausted, as if he hadn't actually slept at all, his head swimming and his eyes unfocused.  Even though he knew better – it was _morning_ , after all – the knowledge wasn't quite enough to get rid of the temptation.  The only thing that stopped him from giving in was the realization that he was lucky, so lucky, that he hadn't dreamed. 

After his mother died, Paul dreamed of her night after night.  They weren't all nightmares, though he'd had his fair share of those; it was the good dreams that haunted him, the ones where he saved her, where she got better simply because he'd been there.  Waking up from those was the worst, because there was always a few bleary moments where he believed them, where he truly thought he heard his mother somewhere in the house, singing to herself as she got ready.  And he'd lie there in _relief,_ thinking himself silly for ever imagining that she was dead.  Then he'd remember, and the pain would hit him all over again.

No, he couldn't go back to sleep.  He couldn't risk dreaming of John. 

He got dressed slowly, mechanically, and washed the tear streaks from his face before going downstairs. 

 Mike was at the table with a bowl of cereal, swinging his legs contentedly, as if nothing horrible had happened.  Anger flashed from Paul's chest all the way to his fingertips, making his hands curl into fists – God, he wanted to yell at him, to knock him off his chair, make him feel even a fraction of the pain that coursed through Paul's veins.  Maybe he would have, if his dad hadn't been sitting there next to Mike, newspaper in hand.  Jim peered over the edge of the paper, frowning.

 "I was wondering if I'd have to wake you," he commented. 

Paul could only stare at him, his mind sleepily trying to make sense of this.  "But – huh?" was all he could manage.  It was Monday, wasn't it?  Why was his dad even _here_? 

"Sit down, eat," Jim said, turning his attention back to the paper.  "We still have a little time." 

"Time for what?" Paul took a few hesitant steps toward the table, toward the vacant seat in front of a bowl filled to the brim with corn flakes.  Jim gave him a look as if it should be obvious – a flat, unimpressed expression, and Mike had the audacity to giggle.  Paul's brain offered the only solution it could muster, though it barely made sense; it was too soon, it would always be _too soon_.  "The – the funeral?" he guessed, his voice giving out halfway through.

Jim closed the paper, setting it on the table with a loud sigh.  "Whose funeral?  Julia's?  We've missed it, son, you said you wouldn't go."  Before Paul could correct him, Jim went on, "Don't be so dramatic, you like Aunt Jin." 

Of course he did, but Paul didn't know what she had to do with this conversation.  "But – but _John_ –"

"Oh no, you're not using him to get out of this.  I thought you were giving him his space." 

Paul gaped at him, his heart thundering in his chest, something like sickness constricting his throat.  His eyes darted between his father and Mike, waiting for one of them to acknowledge what happened, to admit that this was some kind of sick joke. 

Jim sighed tiredly, gesturing for Paul to sit. 

"C'mon," he coaxed.  "John'll be here when we get back." 

The words hit like an electric shock, a burst of life flooding through Paul's numb body, making him stagger backward and grip the countertop for balance.  He felt hot and cold all at once, his mouth dry and his eyes prickling.  "What–" he stammered, his heart pounding in his ears.  His voice was barely there, shaking as though it were about to leave him entirely.  "What are you talking about?"

Jim was looking at him now, _really_ looking at him, his brows knitted in concern.  "Are you unwell?"  He made to get up, wiping his hands on the ever-present dishtowel tucked in his pocket.  He reached for Paul, as if Paul were a child who needed someone to feel his forehead to check his temperature. 

"John–." It felt like the only word Paul could say, the only one that actually mattered.  His knees were shaking, like they were going to give out at any moment.  All of his energy, all of his thoughts, were focused on this one thing, and he had to find the words to ask.  "Is he – is he..?" 

"He's all right," Jim said, his expression shifting from concern to patient amusement.  "Did you have a bad dream, then?" 

There wasn't time to answer. 

"I've got to go." 

"Go _where_?" 

Jim's voice seemed to fade into the background as Paul's head filled with a new sense of urgency.  It hadn't felt like a dream.  Even now, the pain was real, surging in his chest like an open wound.  He had to see for himself, he had to look John in the eyes, to touch him and feel his warmth.  He wouldn't believe it until then. 

Paul's shoes were by the door and he grabbed them in a hurry, pulling them on without bothering to untie them. 

"Paul," Jim said warningly.  "You see him nearly every day, I think you can give Aunt Jin a few hours of your time." 

"I can't.  I'm sorry, dad. I can't."  The words were spilling out so fast that they felt nonsensical.  Paul's whole body was shaking with pent up energy – with excitement and fear and relief and everything in between.  Beneath that was a dark, quiet certainty that if he didn't see John, didn't see him _now_ , that everything he'd dreamt would be real after all.  "Tell Aunt Jin I'm sorry, _I'm sorry_ , but I've got to – he needs me." 

Jim waved him off, starting some warning about repercussions, but Paul couldn't bring himself to listen, to even care.  He was already out the door, slamming it behind him and cutting off his father's words.  Then he was running, running, his trembling legs carrying him faster than he'd ever run before.  He couldn't be bothered to stop and grab his bike – he wouldn't stop for anything, not until he proved to himself that John was all right.  Everything else could wait. 

It seemed to take an eternity to reach Mimi's house.  Paul finally slowed to a walk as he approached, letting himself through the gate with deliberate care.  Now that he was here, he was scared.  There was no other word for it.  The house looked dark, lifeless; he couldn't hear any music from within, no indication of John playing his records too loudly, or practicing in the front room. 

His last encounter with Mimi flashed in his mind vividly – he could still remember the look on her face, the sound of her muffled tears.  It couldn't have been a dream.  He couldn't have made that up, not in his worst nightmares. 

He stood in front of the door, his fist raised to knock.  What would he do if Mimi opened the door with that same, anguished look on her face?  What if Jim believed John was alive only because he didn't know any better?  News doesn't always travel fast, and it wasn't as if Paul had come home and spoken to him about it. 

Paul lowered his hand, a heavy blanket of resignation settling over him.  John was dead.  He knew it.  He _knew_ , but he'd been stupid enough to hope. 

He'd done the same thing when his mother died.  It felt like if he didn't talk about it, or if his family collectively pretended that it had never happened, suddenly life would go back to normal.  She would come home on time as if nothing was amiss, and everything would be okay again.  Paul still felt that way sometimes; when he met someone new and they automatically assumed he had a mother, he almost wanted to go along with it, act as if she were still around.  Because then, somehow, it seemed as though she would be. 

A bitter laugh came out in place of the sob that bubbled just under the surface.  Paul turned around slowly, hands shoved deep in his pockets.  He could never come back here, he knew that.  He could never face Mimi again, never go into this house, stare at John's closed door and know that he wouldn't be there.  He came to a stop halfway to the gate.  His eyes slid closed and he breathed in deep, committing to memory the smell of Mimi's garden.  He could almost believe that he could smell John, too; beer and cigarettes and guitar strings. 

"Good heavens, boy, what are you doing there?" 

Paul whirled around, turning so fast he nearly lost his balance.  Mimi stood in the doorway, pristine as ever, lips pursed in disapproval.  A hint of darkness still lingered around her eyes; it made her look older, tired, though her expression still softened when she recognized him. 

"Here to see John, are you?"

She closed the door behind her, gliding down the path to stand before Paul.  Paul could only stare at her, his mouth hanging open in a stupid, wordless gape. 

Mimi rolled her eyes, waving him out of the way so she could get past.  "He's still in bed," she said in a clipped, no nonsense tone as she stepped by him.  "Might do him some good to see someone."  She paused, turning back to Paul with a small, warm hint of a smile.  "I was afraid you'd given up on him." 

The thundering of Paul's heart made his throat feel tight, a mixed torrent of relief and disbelief causing a prickling heaviness behind his eyes.  "Never," he got out, his voice a small, wary thing. 

Mimi touched his cheek, once, in a gentle pat, and left without another word.  It took a moment for Paul to work up the nerve to move; the house seemed darker than normal, cold and uncharacteristically silent – _like a tomb_ , Paul's mind supplied – and he was almost afraid of going in.  Mimi wouldn't lie to him, he knew that.  He should be relieved, he should be _ecstatic_ , hurrying up to John's room to throw his arms around him. 

Instead, Paul moved slowly through the house, feeling like an intruder.  The silence seemed fragile, like if he made a single sound the whole world would collapse around him.  Even his breaths seemed loud; quick, shallow gusts of air that were the only indication of the panic Paul refused to show – the panic that made him lightheaded, made his throat tight and dry.  He made his way up the stairs carefully, his fingertips sliding lightly over the banister.  He avoided the creaky step halfway up with practiced ease, listening carefully for any sign of life. 

Paul couldn't hear anything when he reached the landing.  He was so used to the sounds of John's guitar, or his mouth organ, or the radio cranked up loudly and drifting through the closed door.  It wasn't until he'd nearly reached the door that he became aware of a small, plaintive sound.  It was soft, only barely there – he wouldn't have noticed it at all if he hadn't been listening so carefully.  _God_ , it sounded like John, and Paul had to bite his lip to hold back the tears.  He knew this sound.  When Paul would sleep over, they would sometimes sing together, quietly, careful not to wake anyone.  John's voice would take on this fragile, sleepy tone, devoid of all his rock n' roll roughness; it always seemed so special, reserved for Paul alone.  

 He suddenly couldn't get to John fast enough, pushing open the door and letting himself in as if nothing had happened.  The room was dark, the curtains drawn, and it took a moment for Paul's eyes to adjust well enough to make out a curled up lump on the bed.

The singing came to an abrupt stop.  "Fuck off, Mimi," came John's cracked, haggard voice. 

There was nothing Paul could have done to stop the tears that began to flow from his eyes.  He wiped at them impatiently, drawn to the bedside as if by a magnet. 

"Johnny?"

For a long moment, the whole room was still, lifeless, and Paul had the fleeting fear that it had all been in his head.  And then John sucked in a breath, rolled over, lifting his head slowly from the nest of blankets piled around him.  He looked terrible.  His skin was pasty and gaunt, his eyes surrounded by a splotchy darkness.  The rims were red, damp, and beyond them, his eyes dull and bloodshot.  Even his hair, which was usually so carefully styled, was matted to his head as if it hadn't been washed in days. 

None of that mattered.  In that moment, he was the most beautiful thing Paul had ever seen.

He was breathing.

He was _alive_. 

"Paul," John breathed, mystified.  He struggled in an attempt to push himself up.

"No, no, it's okay."  Paul laid his hands on John's shoulders, not to hold him down so much as just to _feel_ him.  The dream was fading away now, finally.  John was alive.  He was _real_ , his skin damp and hot from his cocoon of blankets, his shoulders rising and falling with steady breaths under Paul's hands. 

"You look like shit," John told him.  He sounded a little better now, more normal, his defenses firmly back in place.  It occurred to Paul that John had every reason to be mad at him, to kick him out without so much as an explanation. 

Paul drew away, fisting his hands in his pockets nervously.  "I couldn't sleep.  Nightmares, y'know."  He shrugged and John squinted at him strangely.  "Johnny, I'm sorry," Paul blurted.  "For everything.  I'm so–"

"Don't.  It doesn't matter." 

"Right."  Paul bit at his lip.  He'd been so worked up over his dream that he'd nearly forgotten that John was currently battling his own demons.  As much as Paul wanted to celebrate, to set things right between them and bask in the relief, to be _happy_ , now wasn't the time.  Still, it pressed on his mind that any moment could be their last, and he had to apologize _now_ , make sure John knew that their friendship wasn't over, that Paul could never truly hate him.  The look on John's face, however, told him that he didn't want to hear it. 

John looked at him for a long moment, his lips pursed in a way that provided a rare physical reminder that he was actually related Mimi.  He collapsed back against the pillows, resting his head against his bicep.  "Are you just going to stand there?"

Paul flinched back, stung.  "Oh.  Sorry.  I'll leave." 

A loud sigh stopped Paul before he could even turn around.  "I'm fucking tired," John said wearily.  " _You're_ fucking tired.  Just get in, would you?"          

It took a moment for the command to register in Paul's racing mind, and when it did, all he could manage was an eloquent, "Huh?" 

John scrubbed a hand over his face.  "Look.  You can stay if you want, I don't care, but I'm going to sleep." 

That seemed to be as close to a peace offering as they were going to get, and Paul wasn't going to let it slip past.  He stripped out of his jacket and his shoes while John scooted over to make room.  If there were any lingering doubts in Paul's mind, they were dispelled the moment he slid into bed.  This felt right, _normal_ ; the bed was warm, alive with John's scent, and Paul could feel him breathing nearby.  It was a wave of simple feelings that he thought he'd never experience again, and suddenly even the small distance between them felt like miles. 

John had his back to him already – rightfully so, Paul thought.  He shifted closer anyway, hesitantly pressing his knees against the back of John's legs, desperate for contact.  Even with John beside him, Paul wouldn't be able to sleep without at least keeping a hand on him, just to make sure he didn't disappear.  When John didn't move away, Paul curved himself around his back, hooking an arm slowly around John's waist.

"Paul?" The word was no more than a quiet puff of breath, which Paul felt more than he heard. 

He slid his hand up John's torso, tracing the folds of his shirt with his fingers, before coming to a stop over his chest.  He flattened his hand there, John's heart beating steadily against his palm.  Paul hid a smile in John's shoulder. 

"There you are." 

"Yeah," John said hesitantly, barely masking his confusion.  "Didn't go anywhere." 

"I'm sorry."  Paul smoothed his thumb over John's chest.  "I'll never abandon you again." 

He felt the change in John's breathing, the quiet, stuttering gasp against his hand.  Paul hushed him, tucking his head against John's and stroking his chest gently.  John had been very still while Paul had wrapped himself around him, but now his fingers trailed up to encircle Paul's wrist.  For a second, Paul thought John was about to yank his hand away and kick him out of bed entirely.  But he just held on, his grip loose and shaky.

There was nothing Paul could say – not about Julia, about _them_ – nothing that would actually make a difference.  John was too smart for meaningless placating; it wouldn't do him any good to hear that Julia was in a better place, that everything would be all right.  Nothing would ever be all right again, and Paul knew that better than anyone. 

There was only one thing he could do, and it was the very thing that tied him and John together; the one thing that always remained when they ran out of words. He started humming first, a melody that seemed to write itself.  Out of nowhere, the words of a poem he'd once read came to him, and he barely thought about them as they naturally turned into a song. 

" _Golden slumbers fill your eyes_ ," he sang softly, nosing John's hair.  " _Smiles awake you when you rise_."

John let out a sound that was little more than a soft, choked whimper.  Paul tucked him closer, wrapping himself around John as best he could, a protective shell between John and the world. 

" _Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry.  And I will sing a lullaby_."  

***

It was early afternoon before Paul finally coaxed John out of bed and convinced him to wash up.  It was always the little things that helped the most – getting up, getting _clean_ , eating and following some kind of schedule.  If anything could make John feel a little better, it would be that.  He had to work through it.  Crying never solved anything. 

Paul made lunch while he waited, smiling to himself as he listened to John clunk around in the shower.  When John joined him in the kitchen, hair damp and dripping onto his clean shirt, he ate as if he hadn't had a decent meal since his mother died.  Knowing him, he probably hadn't.  Paul had no doubt that Mimi was trying her best, but she was coping with the loss of her sister; John needed to be coddled, reminded to eat and take care of himself. 

Paul sat across from him at the tiny table, his left side warmed by the sunlight pouring through the window.  He'd made a sandwich for himself, too, but it remained untouched on his plate, his mind far away. 

"All right?" John asked, when he finished off his lunch.  It struck Paul as rather funny, given their situations, that John should be asking _Paul_ if he's all right.  He smiled, pushing his plate toward John.

"You need this more than I do, I think." 

John accepted the offering with a furrowed brow, taking a large bite out of the sandwich.  It was hard not to notice how lovely John looked – how _alive._   Half lit by the stark sunlight, the other side of his face cast in shadow, he looked ethereal, like an angel carved from marble, despite the shadows under his eyes.  The sun highlighted his hair, making the drying strands around the edges glow a soft orange.  Everything about him seemed to move, to _breathe_ ; his eyelashes fluttering as his chest rose and fell _._   Maybe it was just because Paul had never taken the time to appreciate what it meant to be alive, but it nearly took his breath away.  

"Do you wanna go somewhere?" Paul asked, when John finished up.   

John blinked up at him.  "Where?"

"I dunno.  Anywhere.  We can just walk around a bit if you want."

John frowned down at the remains of his second sandwich, picking at the crust.  " _Why?_ " 

"The sun's up.  The sky's blue."   Paul shrugged.  "It's beautiful." 

John grunted noncommittally, shifting his gaze toward the window.  He sat that way for a long time, just staring out at the street, biting at his thumbnail.  The heavy set of his brows made Paul nervous – it seemed that, to John, this meant more than simply going outside and being a functional human being, and the worst part about it was that Paul didn't know _why_.  He wanted to grab John and shake him, remind him that there was a difference between grieving and _moping._ That was something Paul couldn't relate to at all; when things got bad, he had to keep himself occupied to stay sane.  Hiding in the dark all day and getting drunk all night seemed to be the most counterproductive measure anyone could take, and he needed John to snap out of it.

He was so convinced that John was going to make up some excuse that he almost missed it when John quietly conceded.  Paul's head snapped up, his brows rising in surprise.  "What?" 

John rolled his eyes, though the small smirk on his face made it clear that he enjoyed having caught Paul off guard.  "Don't shit yourself, Paulie."  He stood, grabbing his leather jacket from the back of his chair and shrugging into it.  "It's not a date." 

The words knocked against Paul's chest as if John had kicked him, and if the way John was watching him for a reaction was any indication, they were meant to.  Paul only barely covered it by laying a hand over his heart, collapsing back into his chair.  "My heart's broken, John, truly.  What am I supposed to do with the flowers?" 

"Keep 'em.  Might find yourself a nice girl." 

It was an accusation; John hadn't even tried to hide it.  He loomed over Paul now, fists jammed in his pockets, the stark shadows across his face making him look older, angrier.  Paul shoved himself to his feet, if only to remind himself that John actually wasn't bigger than him – but it put their faces a mere breath apart, their shoulders bumping. 

Paul couldn't have backed away if he'd wanted to, trapped between John and the table.  The last thing he wanted was a fight, verbal or otherwise.  Everything had been going so wrong between them lately, and all he craved was one nice day, just one, to remind them both that this was worth it.  Dream or not, he could still remember how empty he'd felt without John, how pointless everything seemed.  No matter what happened, Paul refused to lose him again. 

John held Paul's gaze for only a moment before taking a staggering step back, glaring at the floor.  Absurdly, Paul wanted to apologize – for the pink on John's cheeks and the anger in his eyes. 

Instead, Paul merely stepped past him, letting their shoulders brush.  "C'mon," he said quietly.  He didn't have to look back to know John was following, but he did anyway, and John pulled a face when their eyes met.    

***

The sun was beginning to set when they stopped, sitting across from each other in a hole-the-wall fish and chips shop, a shared order of chips between them.  The silence between them had lingered for most of their walk, though it had slowly shifted from tense to rather comfortable.  At least, Paul no longer felt that he had to keep John entertained to keep him from bolting. 

Still, John seemed uncomfortable.  Even now, he sat perched on the edge of his chair, looking around as if keeping watch for something – some _one_.  It wasn't as though Paul always had to be the center of John's attention, but he couldn't quite silence the frustration that bit at the corners of his consciousness. 

Paul flicked a half-eaten chip at him, striking him in the cheek and making him jump. 

"Waiting for someone?" Paul asked, propping his elbows on the table. 

"No."  The answer was too quick to be fully believable.  As if sensing this, John added, "Rather not see anyone I know, actually." 

Paul hummed in acknowledgment.  He knew that feeling uncomfortably well – still struggled with it, from time to time, when an old acquaintance popped up.  Almost worse than losing someone was having to recount the story again and again to each curious friend who asked. 

"Tell me if you do.  I'll distract them so you can run." 

That, at least, earned some semblance of a smile.  "Right.  Just bat your pretty eyes, and no one will notice the lunatic running out the door."    

Paul did just that, fluttering his eyelids dramatically.  John's laugh seemed more courteous than genuine, but Paul grinned at him anyway, and John's answering smile was soft and real. 

"Listen.  Paul."  John leaned forward, his voice dropping.  The whole atmosphere around them seemed to shift in that instant, and Paul would have been worried if the side of John's foot hadn't pressed against his own beneath the table.  Paul found himself copying John's position, leaning forward as if to hear him better.  John, however, hadn't continued; he stared down at the table, chewing on his lower lip. 

When his eyes met Paul's, there was something breathtakingly honest in his expression, something that made Paul's heart catch in his throat.  While it was more than likely that John would get nervous, talk himself out of whatever he wanted to say and dismiss the whole thing as a joke, Paul could feel it.  This was important. 

Paul slid his other foot against John's, catching it between his own in a sort of hug.  John ducked his head, hiding a smile. 

"About last week," he started.  He took a shuddering breath and met Paul's eyes once more.  "I–"

"Well, if it isn't Jim McCartney's boy!"

The voice seemed to come out of nowhere, and he and John jerked back as if yanked apart.  A shadow now loomed over their table; a robust, cheerful-looking man smiling down at them.  Rather – smiling at Paul.  The looks he shot at John were rather judgmental, rather _disgusted_. 

It took all of Paul's effort not to slam his fists on the table.  His heart was beating wildly, making his fingers tremble – this man was no one he recognized, and now John wouldn't even look at him.  In fact, Paul realized, John had pulled away from him entirely, even breaking their small connection beneath the table. 

"Paul, isn't it?" the man went on, oblivious. 

Paul sucked in a deep breath, wrenching his eyes away from John.  John, who stared sullenly at the wall, refusing to look at either of them.  "Yeah," Paul said tightly. 

The man introduced himself as Frank something-or-rather, said he was once part of Jim's jazz band.  He looked disproportionately pleased about this, rearing up like some sort of proud penguin, as if he thought he were a local celebrity.  Paul shot another glance at John.  No matter what mood John was in, this was ordinarily the sort of thing he'd jump at the chance to make fun of.  He hadn't moved, his fists clenched and his jaw set. 

"I'll tell him you said hello, then."  It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his voice level, and Paul hoped the fact that he wasn't even _looking_ at Frank anymore made it clear enough that he'd outstayed his welcome. 

"Yes, yes, very good," Frank replied.  He smiled at Paul, his cheeks rosy, bouncing on his heels as though they had all the time in the world.  "How's your mother getting on?"

It was as though he had dumped a bucket of water over Paul's head, a burst of cold anxiety flaring somewhere in the back of his skull.  Even John jerked at that; Paul could see him out of the corner of his eye, sitting up stiffly, looking at Paul for the first time. 

"Lovely woman," Frank went on.  Beneath the table, John touched the tip of his shoe against Paul's. It was light enough that it could have been an accident, except he didn't pull away.  "Mary, right?  Is she still a nurse?"

Paul cleared his throat a few times, scratching at the side of his neck.  "Well, actually," he managed, his voice cracking just a little.  John pressed against him a little more firmly.  "She died.  A couple years ago.  So I suppose she's not doing much of anything these days."   

He was vaguely aware of Frank stuttering out apologies, condolences – the same shit Paul had heard over and over since it happened.  He didn't have it in him to even pretend it was all right.  Instead, he focused on John, who looked right back at him, something fragile and angry twitching around his lips. 

"Ah – I've been horribly rude, haven't I?" Frank said in a rush.  "Who's your friend?"  He didn't seem particularly interested in the answer; the fake smile did nothing to hide the disdain for the leather, the hair, all the little things that somehow accumulated in John being looked upon as nothing more than a troublemaker. 

"Elvis," John said, deadpan, and either Frank missed the reference or was too flustered to notice. 

"A pleasure."  With a wry smile, and a voice that indicated he was attempting some kind of joke to make light of his embarrassment, Frank went on, "And your mother's doing well, I take it?" 

"Got herself run over about a week ago."  Frank's face fell, the color draining from his cheeks.  John seemed to thrive on his discomfort, leaning forward, a dark sort of humor lighting his face.  "Yeah, she died right there in the street.  How's _your_ mum, Frankie?"

Frank's mouth opened and closed wordlessly, looking between the two of them.  A hesitant sort of smile still lingered on his face, as though he thought this all might be a joke. 

"You hear that, Paul?" John lifted a hand to his ear theatrically, shooting Paul a grin.  "I think I hear her calling for you, Frankie, better hurry home." 

"Sounds pissed off," Paul added.  "Did you forget to put her tea on again?  Naughty boy."

Frank reared up, all semblance of friendliness disappearing from his face.  "I can certainly see the impact of her passing."  This was aimed at Paul.  "The Mary I knew would never tolerate the influence of your…" he sneered, jerking his head at John – "present company."     

"Funny," Paul replied.  "I don't think she'd've tolerated you, either.  Reckon I knew her better." 

"Give your father my regards.  And tell him to keep his sons in line." 

"Yes, _sir_ ," Paul gushed at Frank's retreating back.  When he turned back to John, he was surprised to find him smiling – the big, infectious smile that crinkled his nose, made his eyes look more squinted than they actually were. 

The second their eyes met, they dissolved into laughter – at Frank's embarrassment, his reaction, the absurd timing of it all.  They couldn't stop once they got started, their sides aching and tears streaking down their faces, drawing curious glances and eventually glares from the other customers, but they hardly noticed.  It felt _good_ to laugh at this together.  It was something no one else would understand, a situation none of their other friends would ever be forced to experience.

In the middle of the storm, there was suddenly a light – for both of them.  No matter what happened, this was a pain they could both understand.  With that knowledge, the weight of it seemed a little easier to bear. 

***

Paul ended up staying at John's house late into the evening, joining John and Mimi for an uncharacteristically quiet dinner before holing up back in John's room and listening to records.  It was nice, for once, to just enjoy the music without scrambling to write down the lyrics, accidentally scratching the needle against the vinyl when they missed a line.  They sat on John's bed, leaning against the wall and sharing a cigarette, just listening. 

They had Buddy Holly on now, the perky, optimistic beat of 'Everyday' keeping Paul from falling asleep.  That, and the pressure of John's shoulder against his own, electric where they touched, and the occasional nudge of John's knuckles against his own when he passed the cigarette. 

"Are you staying here tonight?" John's voice was soft, dreamlike, and Paul smiled. 

"Probably shouldn't.  Reckon dad's angry enough as it is."   

John made a small sound of acknowledgment, and Paul listened to the quiet tapping noise of John stubbing out the cigarette. 

"Can I tell you something?" John asked.

Paul's eyes slid open.  "'Course." 

John's head was resting against the wall, and he gazed at Paul intently.  It was only then Paul remembered what John had started to say earlier, before Frank had interrupted.  The memory set his nerves on fire – suddenly he wasn't tired at all.  There would be no interruption this time.  As much as Paul wanted to address what had happened, he also didn't want to discuss it at all.  They were _boys_ , they didn't talk about stuff like this. 

But they would have to.  If John were ever going to kiss him again, they would have to.

_Christ_. 

That wasn't something he should even _want_. 

John studied Paul's eyes, long and hard, and Paul tried his best to stay still, to let him find whatever it was he was looking for.  John seemed almost perplexed, with his brows lowered, yet there was a certain, sensitive urgency in his eyes.  He dampened his lips.  "Well, it's kind of stupid, really."

Paul's heart skipped, though he still managed a languid, one-shouldered shrug.  "That's okay.  The percussion in this sounds like someone having a wank." 

John's mouth fell open, lifting his head from the wall as Buddy Holly sang ' _a-hey, a-hey-hey,_ ' the unique, fleshy drumming keeping time.  Paul could see the exact moment that John realized he was right – he beamed, his eyes glittering like a child's on Christmas. 

"You've ruined it!" John exclaimed, hitting Paul's chest.  "You dirty devil!" 

Paul doubled over laughing as John raked his hands through his hair, marveling at this revelation.  "My God, Macca, why would you _say_ that?"

"Just so you wouldn't be the only one saying something stupid."  Paul grinned, nudging him.  "Go on, then." 

"D'you think that's what it is?" John asked instead.  "He was just having a pull one night and thought–"

"Oh my _God_ , John!"

"– _hey, I could write a song to this, I'm Buddy fuckin' Holly_." 

That set them off, and leaned against each other, laughing hard.  "And then," John went on, chuckling.  "Then he gets to the studio, says, ' _hey, fellas, I've this idea for a song, start recording_ ', and he just drops his fuckin' trousers–" 

The rest of John's words were lost as he flopped over sideways, cackling.  It was impossible not to join him, and Paul stretched out along John's side, muffling his own laughter in the blankets. 

"Really," Paul said after a moment.  "What'd you want to tell me?" 

John grinned at him from across the mattress, lifting a shoulder carelessly.  "Just that we should do a song like that one day–"

"John," Paul sighed, swatting him.

"–all of us sit down and get our dicks out–"

"John, I'm _serious_." 

John's smile faltered slightly, his eyes shifting down to watch his fingers loop messy knots into the bed sheet.  "It's nothing, just – thank you, I s'pose."

That sobered Paul in an instant, his gaze softening.  "For what?" 

"Being here?  I dunno, Paul, don't make me spell this out."  He sighed heavily, smoothing out the sheet now, his brows knitted in concentration.  "I just – felt like I should tell you.  That I _had_ to tell you.  You being here… it saved me, somehow." 

Paul opened his mouth to respond, though he was cut short by a sudden, suffocating tightness in his chest.  A vision of himself appeared in his mind: tears streaking down his face as he shoved the journal against the wall, writing frantically, desperately. 

It was supposed to have been a dream, but the words he'd written stood out in striking clarity and a dizzy sickness made Paul's throat go tight. 

"Paul?" John asked, hard and defensive.  He pushed himself up a little, that wide, insincere smile spreading across his face.  "I was only joking." 

"No."  Paul grabbed at John's arm, his hand, clutching it tight.  "I'm sorry.  Just surprised me, is all." 

John studied him for a long moment before slowly lowering himself back down, his expressive eyes now dark and shuttered.  Still, his hand slowly twisted in Paul's, their fingers threading together.  A quiet intimacy fell over them as Paul studied their joined hands.  Their pulse thrummed together in the slots between their fingers, the warmth of John's palm pressed against his own. 

Had he really lost this?  It didn't seem possible, not with John _right here_ , but it didn't feel like a dream anymore.  He remembered doing it, remembered writing the words that had just come from John's lips. 

_He thanked me._

_He told me that I had saved him_. 

*** 

"Say you could change how things happened.  Would you do it?" 

George frowned at him, lowering the hand he was using in an attempt to hail a ride.  They had their bowler hats in place, attempting to look as pleasant as possible, in hopes of sneaking in one last hitchhiking trip before school began again.  John had been making himself scarce lately – he'd allowed Paul to fuss over him for nearly a full week, then he began venturing out on his own again.  At least, he was never around when Paul showed up, and the one time he'd gotten him on the phone, John's only explanation had been a vague, " _I do have other friends, Paulie_." 

"I dunno," George replied.  "What d'you mean?" 

Paul shrugged.  The journal felt heavy in his bag, warm and alive.  "Say – say you had a magic book."  George lifted his eyebrows, grinning skeptically.  "And anything you wrote in that book, it would just – happen." 

"Anything?" 

Paul didn't rightfully know the answer to that question.  When he'd gotten home from John's a few days prior, he'd discovered the journal entry he thought he'd dreamed.  He'd been too afraid to test it out, in case it all went wrong, but he hadn't quite been able to shake the temptation. 

"Sure," he allowed.  "Anything." 

George didn't answer at first, directing his attention toward an approaching car.  He stuck out his hand, putting on his most charming smile, one that Paul immediately copied.  Like the ones before it, the driver passed them by without sparing them a glance. 

George groaned, kicking at the curb.  "Yeah, I'd do it.  I'd make it so we didn't have to stand here all day." 

Paul laughed, but only because he knew he was supposed to. 

"But," George went on, gazing at the heavy clouds that moved steadily above them.  "What would else would change?  Everything happens for a reason, doesn't it?  If the first car had picked us up, we wouldn't be having this conversation, for one thing."  He nodded to a girl across the road.  She was a tiny blonde, skirt swinging around her knees as she left a shop, alone.  "What if someone saw her walking by herself, realized there was no one else around, and decided to take advantage?  Everything would change, wouldn't it?  Maybe not for us, but it could ruin her whole life, just because we got picked up early."

Paul frowned, watching the girl as she made her way back toward town.  They were alone, George was right about that, but could it really make that much of a difference? 

"What about birds?  Would you use it to make one fancy you?"

"If I had to _make_ her fancy me, then it wouldn't be real, would it?" He shrugged.  "I dunno if that's the answer you wanted, but I'd feel guilty, I think.  No one should have that kind of power." 

Paul wanted to press him, to somehow put his and John's situation into words without seeming suspicious.  _Okay, say the girl actually did fancy you, but you couldn't be together, for reasons, and you'd already rejected her once and scared her off, would you make it so you wouldn't feel guilty when you looked at her?  Would you go back and never hurt her in the first place?  Would you make it so you could hold her hand in public?_

He was spared the trouble of thinking about it, however, because the next car came to a stop in front of them.  As he and George clambered into the backseat, Paul peered out the back window, scanning the street.  The girl was nowhere in sight. 

As they were driven out of Liverpool, Paul couldn't help but wonder if George was right.  Maybe everything did happen for a reason.  What if it wasn't safe to change anything at all?    

***

Paul didn't see John again until the day school started.  He and George had just finished for the day and were making their way to the bus stop when Paul saw him – he was on the other side of the road, more than likely heading to the pub.  He had a bird on one arm, a girl Paul recognized as Cynthia, and on his other side was a boy Paul didn't know.  He didn't look like John's type – scrawny and nerdy, every bit the quiet artist with none of the rock 'n' roll edge John was usually so drawn to.  He walked too close to John for Paul's comfort; their elbows brushing with every step. 

"Who's that, you think?" Paul asked.  He couldn't help himself.  He didn't consider himself a jealous sort of person, but there was something about this boy's apparent comfort with John that made a sick sort of anger churn in his chest. 

"Dunno," George answered.  "Think John's making a new band?"  That had been all George talked about for days now.  Paul kept trying to remind him that John had a lot on his mind, probably didn't feel up to working on the band, but George had managed to convince himself it was over. 

"With _him?_   No.  Poor sod wouldn't know a guitar from his arse." 

He could feel George looking at him, but if he was surprised by Paul's response, he didn't say anything.  Instead, he asked, "You sure?  I didn't think you'd talked to him in a while." 

The words hit like a slap in the face, and Paul grit his teeth.  "I _haven't_.  But that doesn't mean anything.  We still have the band, and that git's not going to change that." 

As tempting as it was to follow John's group to Ye Cracke, forcing John to acknowledge his existence, John never once looked their way.  Even if he was with friends, John would usually search Paul out, if only just to share a brief smile.  Now it seemed he couldn't be bothered to look, and Paul couldn't take it anymore.  He  grabbed George's arm and turned the other way, back toward the bus stop. 

The whole way home, he was overly aware of the journal's presence in his bag, and his fingers itched for a pen.  He longed to test it out again, and no one would get hurt if he just made John _look_ at him.  Then he would know for sure if John was ignoring him, or if he'd just been too wrapped up in Cynthia (and his new friend) to notice Paul standing there. 

By the time Paul got to his room, his mind was made up.  This was such a little, innocent thing.  He'd just use it to know for sure that the journal could change things, and it would settle the worry and jealousy that had been stirring in him since he and John had stopped talking.  This could only be a good thing. 

He took the journal from his bag and, with a shaking hand, wrote:

> _1 September 1958_
> 
> _I saw John after school today.  He was on the other side of the road with Cynthia and some bloke.  He must've recognized me in spite of the distance, because he stopped and put his glasses on, and then he looked right at me._

Paul stared down at his words indecisively.  It felt incomplete – like he should have John wave, or smile, or _something_.  But no, this would be enough.  He had to leave the rest up to John.

He pushed the cap back onto the pen and waited.  The journal remained in his lap, completely ordinary, and no matter how hard Paul tried to imagine himself back on the street with George, he remained in his room, perched on the edge of his bed. 

When he grew sick of looking at his own handwriting, the hopeful words scrawled across the page, Paul shoved himself off the bed.  He should have known better – he _did_ know better.  If it was possible for one person to have that much power, why should it be him? 

He slammed the journal closed, and suddenly he was in front of the Institute with George by his side. 

Paul staggered, grabbing onto George's sleeve for balance.  "Oh _shit_."

George was quick to catch him, steadying him with a hand on his chest.  "All right?" he asked, voice soft with concern. 

"It _worked_."  Paul couldn't help himself – it had really worked.  He knew, this time, that he wasn't dreaming.  He'd just been in his room, and now he was fresh out of school, uniform on and bag over his shoulder. 

"What worked?  Paul, are you–"

"Never mind, wait," Paul pushed away from him, jogging to the place he'd stood when he'd spotted John last time. 

And there he was.  Cynthia clung to his elbow, smiling up at him while he talked, and there was that other boy, laughing at John's jokes as if he had every right to.

When George caught up to him, he seemed decidedly less concerned.  "What's come over you?  Oh."  He jutted his chin at John, frowning.  "Who's that with him?  Think he's making a new band?" 

Paul ignored the question, keeping his eyes on John.  The journal had taken him back, but now he had to see John's reaction. 

As if sensing Paul's eyes on him, John turned, squinting.  He shook his arm free of Cynthia's grasp and fished his glasses out of his pocket – it was really happening, just as Paul had written it, and he almost couldn't believe it.  He couldn't tell if it was excitement or nervousness that was making his heart pound, sweat dampening his palms. 

John was looking at him, just across the road, and it would be so easy to run over to him but Paul was too terrified to move.  This wasn't important – this was _nothing_ , but if he moved, he would have definitely, in some small way, altered the past.  Whether things happened for a reason or not, Paul didn't know, but he didn't want to be responsible for it.    

Cynthia spotted him and waved, lifting her arm over her head enthusiastically.  Paul waved back on impulse, smiling – he didn't know her well, but she was always nice to him when he dropped by the college to see John. 

Following Cynthia's lead, John lifted a hand halfheartedly.  Then, as if he thought better of it, he shoved it into his pocket and started across the road, Cynthia and his friend trailing behind. 

_Shit_ , this changed everything, it really did.  There were five people involved in this, and all their afternoons had changed because of one little thing – imagining the possible chain reactions made Paul's head hurt, but it was almost more exciting than worrisome.  This was a good thing; it had to be.  After all, John was smiling at him again.  _Finally_. 

"Afternoon, ladies," John chimed, tucking his glasses away.  His fingers were dark with charcoal residue, a light streak of it smudged across his cheek.   

"John," Paul replied.  "Cyn."  He looked pointedly at John's friend, who, despite looking worse up close, had the audacity to scowl as if he didn't have the time for someone Paul's age. 

"Stuart," John provided, bumping his elbow against Stuart's in a way that made Paul's jaw clench.  The named sounded somewhat familiar, but John must have only mentioned him once or twice.  Still, Paul introduced himself and George, faking a smile that Stuart only barely returned. 

"We're in a band, the three of us," Paul added, just to make sure Stuart _knew_.  "We've a drummer, too.  Just made a record couple months ago." 

Stuart raised his eyebrows, looking to John.  "Yeah?" 

"It's really good," Cynthia enthused, when John didn't reply.  He was giving Paul a hard look, one that was practically screaming at Paul to shut up.  It only made Paul want to talk more, but Cynthia continued for him.  "They did a Buddy Holly one, and the other side is a song Paul wrote himself.  Sounds just like something you'd hear on the radio." 

"It's not that good."  John's tone wasn't a humble one – it was biting, harsh, as if he didn't want to be tied to something Paul had worked so hard on.  "We just threw it together one day.  It wasn't important." 

Cynthia swatted his arm, admonishing him, but Paul was too angry to focus on her words.  That song was the most important thing Paul had ever written – it was _for_ John, it was everything he'd ever felt about John, everything he wanted to have with him.  And now John wanted nothing to do with it, just to appease this little twat, and Paul couldn't stand it anymore. 

"Speaking of the band, Johnny, when do you expect you'll start joining us for practice again?" 

John's lips tightened, an anger flashing in his eyes that made it perfectly clear he knew what Paul was trying to do.  This was to put him on the spot, to force him to admit that he and Paul were close, and that they practiced together all the time.  It didn't matter what John thought of Stuart; the band came first and it always would.   

Stuart was giving John a look that Paul was already beginning to loathe; one eyebrow raised, hands on his hips like a concerned parent. 

"When I get around to it," John said shortly.  "I have a fuckin' life, you know." 

"We're very busy."  Stuart's voice was quiet, calm, and Paul had never wanted to punch someone more in his entire life.  Stuart didn't even know John was in a band until a few moments ago, yet he still deemed it necessary to soothe Paul's wounded little ego – _God_.  "With our art, you know.  We take it very seriously."

It was the constant referral to himself and John as a unit that pushed Paul to his limit.  Stuart had come out of nowhere, took Paul's place so quickly, so easily, that Paul had to wonder if he and John had really been as close as he thought.  He could barely see straight, his fists trembling at his sides – George had engaged Stuart in conversation now, asking about his art, complimenting his stupid little beard, and that was enough.  He didn't have to stand here and listen to this. 

"Right, well, good luck with your little drawings, then," he cut in, his anger only flaring when Stuart and George both shot him twin looks of surprise. 

John sighed, rubbing at his temples.  "Paul–"

"Let me know when you've pulled your head out of your arse."  He tugged at George's elbow, and George followed after only a slight hesitation. 

When they were out of earshot, George jerked out of Paul's grasp.  "What was that about, then?" 

Paul ignored him.  All he could focus on was John and Stuart, right where they'd left them.  Stuart was practically cradling John's face in his hands, using his thumbs to wipe the new smears of charcoal from John's temples.  The anger, the _jealousy_ thrummed inside Paul as if it had a life of its own, pushing him apart at the seams. 

"Stuart's all right," George was saying.  His voice seemed far away, nearly lost under the roar in Paul's ears.  "And John'll come 'round.  I think Stuart–"

" _Christ_ , shut up, would you?" Paul snarled, tearing his eyes away from John.  "I don't want to hear his stupid fucking name.  He's taking John away from us, can't you see that?" 

"I _think_ ," George repeated tersely, "Stuart seemed interested in the band.  He might give John the push he needs to get back into it." 

"He shouldn't need Stuart to fuckin' push him!  You were the one who was worried about the band," Paul reminded him.  "Well, here you go – now's the time to fuckin' worry." 

"Time to worry about _you_ , maybe," George allowed, folding his arms across his chest.  "You've been acting weird since we got out class.  I think you're the one that needs to pull his head out of his arse." 

With that, George left him, continuing to the bus stop alone.  Paul could only stand there, focusing once more on John, Cynthia, and Stuart, watching until they disappeared into the crowd.

***

George was right, which as relieving as it was annoying.  It was only a few weeks later that John scheduled a practice, calling each of them to make arrangements.  He spoke to Paul as if nothing had happened, laughing and joking with him on the phone until Paul finally agreed to be there.  He'd been determined to give John the silent treatment until he addressed the whole Stuart thing but, as usual, Paul fell victim to John's charm.  By the time they hung up, he found himself wondering why he'd been so angry with John in the first place. 

The second he arrived George's house for practice, however, the anger came flooding back in a white-hot torrent.  Stuart was there, standing outside with a glass of whiskey, chatting with Mrs Harrison. He almost wanted to turn around and go home, but Paul steeled himself and stormed past them, his guitar case banging hard against his leg.  If either of them acknowledged him, he wasn't aware of it; he didn't break his stride until he located John, perched on the couch's armrest, tuning his guitar. 

" _What's he doing here?_ " Paul hissed, tossing his case onto the couch.  It was as close as he could come to actually throwing it at John, and he felt an irrational amount of satisfaction when the edge of it bumped against John's knee. 

John lifted a shoulder, squinting down at the pegs as he plucked a string absently.  "Wanted to hear us play, didn't he?" 

"These practices are for _us_."  Paul gestured between the two of them, and, belatedly noticing George and Colin, looked to them for support.  "It's _private_." 

"It's just this once, John already said so," George said calmly, shrugging.  "I don't mind." 

"He's all right," Colin added.  "Thinks the whole rock 'n' roll thing is cool.  Reckon he likes John more now that he knows he plays."

Paul's mouth fell open, a burst of cold horror filling his veins.  This was his fault.  If he hadn't gone back, if he hadn't used the journal a second time, maybe John and Stuart would have drifted apart already.  All he'd managed to do was drive them closer when all he'd really wanted was John's attention – just for a second. 

"Looks like you're outnumbered, Paulie," John said, smirking up at him.  Paul wanted to scream at him – grab him and shake him and ask him _why_ – why Stuart, why now?  Everything was just getting better between them, and John seemed set on ruining it again. 

There was nothing he could do.  No one else realized what a problem this was, how Stuart was getting in the way of everything.  Paul's only other option was to leave, and as tempting as it was, he didn't want to leave a void for Stuart to fill. 

So he stayed.  His playing was stiff and robotic with Stuart's eyes on them – with John's eyes on _Stuart_ , making faces at him and earning stifled laughs. 

Stuart, for his part, remained as silent as he could during the practice.  He kept his hands clasped primly in his lap, leaning forward with apparent interest.  He must not be able to play, Paul realized, and that was the only thing that kept him going.  He became comfortable enough toward the end of the practice to start showing off a little, watching Stuart's face for any indication of envy. 

All he managed to do, however, was piss off John. 

"If you're not gonna play it right, we're not gonna play at all," John announced, as if they didn't always try to outdo each other. 

"Why?" Paul shot back.  "Jealous?"  He strummed a few chords that he knew John hadn't learned – ones he'd picked up from George, who had been taught by some bloke at school.  It was a low blow and Paul knew it, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"The fuck do I have to be jealous over?  Can't even stay with the fuckin' group, can you?"  There were two spots of color high on John's cheeks, a wild, dangerous light flashing in his eyes.  It was that feral look he sometimes got, the one that meant there were only seconds before he snapped. 

Paul knew he should back down; he never wanted to fight with John, and that was true now more than ever.  But he couldn't stop himself, his mouth already forming his reply before he could fully think it through.  "What's the point?  We can't even have a proper band if you can't ever remember the fucking words."    

There was a second of heavy silence – Paul could sense everyone's eyes on him, could just barely see George shaking his head.  What held his attention, however, was John.  John, who, rather than launching forward to throttle him, actually looked somewhat _hurt_.

"If you want out," John said stiffly.  "Then you can bloody well get out.  We don't need you." 

"We're all a little rough."  That was George, stepping forward with his hands raised, as if approaching a couple of wild animals.  "It's been awhile since we've all practiced together.  We'll get back to where we were." 

It wasn't about the music; it never had been.  Paul knew John was behind on chords, knew he sometimes mixed up words, and it never mattered.  Paul looked toward the back wall, his eyes searching out Stuart, only to find he had quietly excused himself sometime after they had stopped playing.  The realization soothed his anger; at least Stuart had _some_ shred of decency. 

_God_ , why was he doing this?  He barely even knew Stuart, yet he seemed to bring out the very worst in Paul just by existing.  Now John wouldn't even look at him, was staring down at his drainies, picking determinedly at a loose thread. 

"Johnny–"

"Weren't you leaving?" 

"No."  John did look up at him then, squinting in attempt to read his expression.  "I've told you.  I'm in this – I'm your _partner_ – until you look at me and tell me I'm out." 

John's only reply was a guilty twitch of his brows, his hands curling into loose fists against his thighs.  His silence was heavy, weighing down on Paul's heart as if a brick had been lodged in his chest. 

"Well?" he prompted, quiet.  "Am I out?" 

John's expression softened and he scrubbed a hand over his face, sighing.  "No," he said finally.  "No, I guess not." 

The silence that fell over them was quickly broken by George, who started going on about how his brother was getting married in December, how they were looking for a band to play at the reception.  "Told him I'd ask, see if you were up to it." 

"Yeah."  John's eyes remained on Paul, soft and calculating.  "Tell him we'll do it." 

John was out of the room as soon as George finished filling them in on the details, all but running to catch up with Stuart.  Paul packed up his guitar and hurried after him, though he didn't have to go far.  John and Stuart stood just outside, huddled under a streetlight, lighting their cigarettes on a single match.  They kept their voices low enough that Paul couldn't hear them from his distance.  He didn't care if they wanted privacy or not; he made his way over to them, tromping loudly across the street, his fingers sweaty against the handle of his guitar case. 

It was Stuart that acknowledged him first, smiling softly.  "All right, Paul?" 

Paul ignored him.  "I need to talk to you," he said to John.  He hadn't exactly decided what he wanted to say, but he could work that out as soon as he got John alone.  All he knew was that he was tired of the halfhearted fighting, the quiet strain that seemed to have taken over their entire friendship. 

John spread his arms, smirking around his cigarette.  "Talk, then." 

"All right."  He knew well enough by now how to play John's games, and John had just unwittingly given him the upper hand.  With one last wary glance at Stuart, Paul said, "That night, after we made our record–"

He was cut off when John roughly grabbed his arm, jerking him away from Stuart.  "Go on without me," John called over his shoulder, rough and angry.  Paul staggered along behind him, John's fingers digging through his jacket almost painfully, his grip like a vice. 

Paul didn't know where they were going, and he had a feeling John didn't either, but he didn't speak, didn't release his hold on Paul until they were hidden in the shadows of a sort of alleyway. 

"The fuck were you thinking?" John snarled, flinging Paul against the cold brick.  Paul pressed his back against the wall, chin raised, defiant.  If John was going to punch him, he wanted to at least look like he was ready for it. 

"I'm tired of fighting with you," he said calmly.  He ignored John's pointless interjection – " _who's fighting?_ " – and plowed ahead.  "You've been treating me different ever since we – ever since…" Paul stuttered to a stop, unable to form the words.  It didn't seem possible to want something so much, yet be completely unable to voice it, but here he was. 

Fortunately, John didn't bother playing dumb.  "Deserve it, don't you?" 

"Yeah.  Suppose I do."  He hesitated a moment, chewing at his lip.  "I never meant – I never wanted to hurt you, John.  I wouldn't've pushed you away if–"

"Oh ho, is that what this is about?"  John was picking up speed, his words coming out in an angry rush.  "Perfect little Paul McCharmly, too fuckin' good for that bloody queer Lennon.  Now here is, off his high horse to mend me broken heart!  Savior of the whores and the queers, a regular fuckin' Jesus Christ!"  He rolled his eyes, scowling.  "You'll want to keep your bloody ego in check."

Paul could feel the blood rush to his face, exploding across his cheeks in a burst of shame.  "Fine," he said, his voice shaking dangerously.  "Then tell me what the fuck your problem is, because I'm dying to know.  You're never around anymore, can't even pick up the bloody telephone–"

"I _told_ you.  I have other friends.  Maybe I happen to like them better than you.  Maybe they're not clingy fucking _nancies_."   

"Stuart, you mean?" Paul couldn't stop the angry burst of laughter.  "Right, and where was he when Julia died?  Where was he when you couldn't even get out of _bed_ –"

" _Where were you?_ " The words seemed to explode of John, echoing piercingly in the narrow alley.  "I needed you and you fucking _disappeared_.  Then you show up out of the blue and decide you're some hero for it?  _Fuck you_." 

Paul felt as though he'd been slapped, guilt pricking behind his eyes.  "John, I'm–"

"You want to know where Stuart was?  He was a fucking _acquaintance_ , and he still showed up to the funeral.  Guess you were too busy."

"I'm _sorry_ ," Paul blurted.  He longed to reach for John, to do something to get that horrible, wounded look off his face.  He could only stand there, however, fists clenched at his sides.  "I didn't think you'd want to see me.  I thought you _hated_ me."  He drew in a shuddering breath, blinking rapidly in an attempt to hold back the sudden, absurd urge to cry.  "I don't think I'm a hero.  I think I'm a shit friend for abandoning you, and I'm sorry.  I'm sorry it took me so bloody long to get my priorities sorted." 

John's jaw was clenched tight, the anger and the hurt still so tangibly _there_.  A voice in the back of Paul's mind reminded him that he could fix this, that he could go back and take care of John from the start.  But no – no.  It seemed unfair.  After all he'd put John through, it didn't seem right to deny him the chance to be angry.  The journal was proving itself to be an unpredictable tool anyway; what if he used it again, and it only made things worse?  No, it was better saved for emergencies.  He had to work this out himself. 

"You're my best mate," Paul tried, desperate.  "Even if I'm no longer yours.  I'm always going to be here."

Something changed in John's expression, and Paul thought for a moment that he was going to come closer, that he'd finally be able to wrap his arms around him.  Instead, John took a step back, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

"All right," he said quietly. 

Paul just stared at him, confused.  "All right?" he echoed. 

"You don't want me mad at you anymore?  Fine, I'm not." 

"You can be mad all you want." Paul dared to clutch at John's sleeve; the worn, buttery leather felt like home, and he tightened his grip, craving it.  "I just don't want to lose you.  And it feels like I am, more and more every day." 

John stared down at the pavement, his shoulders curled forward, as if he could hide from Paul entirely.  Paul couldn't quite see his eyes, cast in shadow now.  Judging by the way his lip trembled, just slightly, Paul feared those eyes were filling with tears. 

"Johnny–"

"You don't fuckin' get it.  I'm not going anywhere."  John made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob.  "I'm the one that loses people.  I've lost everyone I've ever cared about."  He shifted closer, _finally_ , pressing into Paul's touch.  "And I thought I'd lost you, too.  Because I was fuckin' _stupid_ –"

"Stop it."  Paul couldn't keep his hands off him now.  He hooked his arms around John's shoulders and yanked him against his chest, holding him there.  John clung to him, fisting the back of Paul's shirt as if he was afraid to let go – as if Paul would _leave him_. 

"You weren't…" Paul tried, "I really…"  He still couldn't say it, the words dying in his throat.  How badly he'd wanted to kiss John back, how much he wished he had.  John's shoulders hitched delicately under Paul's hands and Paul clutched him tight, supporting him, the way he should have been from the very start. 

All Paul could do was apologize, over and over, rocking John gently as he silently cried himself out.  Paul whispered reassurances when he thought of them, reminding John that he would never be alone, that there wasn't a single thing he could do that would make Paul leave him.   

"Stuck with you forever, am I?"  John asked eventually, a wavering attempt at humor in his voice. 

Paul squeezed him tight, running a firm hand up and down John's back.  "Forever."

*** 

By the time they performed at the wedding reception, things were better.  It wasn't the _same_ , probably never would be with Stuart around, but it was better.  While Stuart still occasionally showed up to their practices, and while John brushed Paul off too often because he had "plans with Stu," at least they were communicating.  At least they were _friends_ again. 

Playing for an audience again seemed to lift John's mood, too, and by the end of the afternoon, he was already talking about looking for real gigs again.  It was refreshing to see John so passionate; Paul hadn't realized how lifeless and robotic John had become until that moment, and it was like the sun breaking through the clouds after a rainstorm.

John started making time for Paul again after that, showing up at his house for impromptu practice, easing back into writing together.  It had been months since they'd sat side by side, John's right hand bumping into Paul's left as they scribbled ideas on the same piece of paper, but it almost felt like no time had passed at all.  This was the way it was meant to be, and Paul could tell by John's smile that he could feel it, too. 

The band, however, was slowly falling apart.  They'd already lost Colin, and George's dedication soon began to waver. 

"I've found a new group," he confessed to Paul one afternoon, his voice quiet and guilty.  He glanced around nervously, as if John might jump out from the bushes and throttle him.  "They'd probably let you in too, if you'd like." 

Paul refused the offer without a second thought.  The only reason he'd wanted to be in a band in the first place was because of John, and John was still holding onto The Quarrymen with all his might.  Which meant Paul was going to hold on with him, even if they were the only ones left. 

When George returned, it was with a performance opportunity and a bass player, which equaled everything out in John's eyes. 

Paul didn't know what he was expecting when George led him, John, and Cynthia into the Casbah club for the first time, but he had envisioned it as more than an unfinished cellar, its sole occupant an Indian woman with a paintbrush in hand.  George introduced her as Mona Best, the owner. 

Paul looked to John to judge his reaction – this was unlike any venue they'd been in before, and Mona hardly looked like the rock 'n' roll type, but John was in another world.  His eyes had immediately locked onto the paint buckets, and Paul could see him looking around the cellar, painting it with his mind.  It was a look that Cynthia shared, grinning at John enthusiastically. 

"We'll open next week," Mona was saying.  "If I can get this finished." 

It hardly came as a surprise when John offered their assistance, and while Paul wasn't quite the artistic type, there was something relaxing about painting the walls, the ceiling.  Mona gave them the freedom to decorate however they liked, and as John painted intricate designs on the ceiling of one room, Paul sat at his feet, painting the bottom edges of the wall. 

Cynthia, George, and Mona had drifted to the other rooms to divide the work, joined eventually by Mona's son, Pete.  It had taken awhile to get him to leave – he'd been overly interested in the band, trailing John and Paul around as they worked, asking them questions.  As badly as they needed new people, Paul's world with John had reached maximum capacity.  He wasn't willing to share John's attention again, not for a long time.

For now, he and John were blessedly alone, and Paul was free to relax.  John had loosened up, too, singing with the records Mona played, mixing paint and making messes that somehow turned out beautiful.  Paul nudged John's leg with his elbow, laughing when John kicked him.

"Don't mess me up," John said seriously.  He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders as he inspected the freshly painted designs on the ceiling.  Black paint had dripped down onto his cheek, disappearing somewhere in his sideboards.

"What are you even doing?" 

John clicked his tongue, painting a diamond pattern.  "It's _Egyptian_.  I guess.  Aztec, or something."  He faltered suddenly, unsure.  "It's good, innit?"

"'Course it is."  Paul waited a moment, watching as John finished an intricate arrangement of lines.  "I guess you and Cynthia are back on, then?"  He'd been dying to ask since John turned up to the meeting with Cynthia at his side, as casually as if they hadn't been apart for months.   

A smile curled at John's lips.  "Mhmm," he hummed.   

Paul pushed away the small, bitter swell of jealousy that loomed in the back of his mind.  There was nothing wrong with Cynthia; she'd dyed her hair for John, dressed like Brigitte Bardot for him.  She was the ideal girlfriend, had been since the beginning, and Paul couldn't rightfully wish for that to end. 

Even so, he couldn't keep himself from asking, "For good?" 

"As long as I ' _behave_ '."  John rolled his eyes, loading his brush with more paint.  "Can't cause scenes.  Or – whatever.  Y'know." 

Paul didn't know, exactly, but he nodded anyway.  A part of him wanted to scream that he wouldn't make John behave, would let him do whatever he liked, but it was irrational and Paul knew it.  They could never be together, not like that.  Even if John was somehow still interested in him, he'd have to keep Cynthia around to keep from drawing attention.  It would never be _real_. 

"You fucking her?"  The words came out without Paul's consent, but he suddenly had to know.  It would be a miracle if John was a virgin; he talked big, but Paul didn't know how many girls he'd actually had.  He couldn't picture him with a single one.  Maybe he could envision it with Cynthia.  He'd seen her in skirts short enough to reveal her thighs, and he could almost, _almost_ picture them hooked around John's waist.

He slathered paint on the wall to distract himself from the sudden heat that burned low in his gut, shifting his legs uncomfortably. 

John snorted around a laugh.  "Do I look like a fucking eunuch?  Christ.  I wouldn't let tits like that go to waste." 

Paul laughed despite himself, leaning back against John's leg.  "Does she suck your cock?" he asked quietly, a jolt of nervous excitement sparking somewhere in his chest.  He shouldn't be asking, not while they were alone like this, with his head pillowed on John's thigh.  He was hyperaware of John's belt buckle, so close to his cheek that he could almost imagine the coolness radiating from it.  He stared determinedly at the wall, fighting the urge to look up at John, to watch his face. 

John went very still, the sound of the brush dotting the ceiling going quiet.  "Hasn't yet," John replied, breathless.  "Said she would."  He shifted slightly, and Paul swore John pressed closer.  "Why?" 

_Because I would_ , Paul wanted to say.  He could almost taste the words on his tongue, and he felt filthy for it.  He didn't know where the thought had even come from, but the fact that it was _there_ , that it had appeared in his mind with such conviction – it felt like he'd just earned himself a spot in hell, or at the very least, prison.  He jerked away from John, ashamed.

"Just wondering what it was like," he muttered, balancing his brush across the top of a paint can.  He stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans.  "This wall's done." 

"There's a bird who does it for me in the hallway," John said quickly, frantic.  "At school.  If you want details.  I mean, I could tell you – that is, if you really want to know."   

Paul's heart seemed to stutter in his chest.  John was looking at him strangely, almost desperately, and even with the paint streaked across his face, Paul wanted him more than anything.  Wanted to know what he felt, the things he did – Paul wanted all of it. 

"Want to know what?" 

Cynthia stood in the doorway, white paint speckled on her shirt, a wide, innocent smile on her face.  God, he was horrible; Paul was almost too ashamed to look at her.  She was too kind, too important, to have Paul thinking about her boyfriend that way. 

"Private, innit?" John snapped.  He threw down his brush, paint splattering up his leg.  "Bleedin' Christ, you don't get to be a part of every conversation." 

Paul was more than used to John's outbursts by now, but he still flinched at his tone.  Cynthia, however, merely rolled her eyes, crossing her arms across her chest. 

"Well?" John pressed.  "What do you want?"

"Just to show you something."  She waved her hand, beckoning John to follow.  "Come here."  With a soft smile, she added, "You too, Paul." 

Paul followed the pair of them down the hall and into one of the larger rooms.  It was painted all black, unfinished, but Cynthia was giddy as she waved them around the corner.  Paul was tempted to make a joke, ask if she'd been inspired by the backs of her eyelids, but that's when he saw it.  On the far wall was a perfect silhouette of John with his guitar, painted in white. 

"Jesus, Cyn," John breathed, mesmerized.  "That isn't – is that..?"  He was probably about to do something daft, like ask if it was Elvis, but Cynthia cut him off.

"You," she supplied, smiling fondly.  She seemed to know just as well as Paul did that John wouldn't ask right out, to keep from looking foolish if he was wrong.  It was almost funny, Paul thought, that someone who acted as tough as John could be so painfully insecure. 

The humor, however, drained from Paul in an instant when John grabbed Cynthia, pulling her into his arms and kissing her hard.  Her delighted giggle was muffled against his lips, her hands flattening against his chest, and Paul couldn't look anymore.  He left them to it, hiding himself away in another room and distracting himself with the paint.

He had a whole portion of the ceiling painted with streaks of color when he realized John hadn't returned to him, and probably never would. 

***

They played their first show at the Casbah a week later.  Their new bassist, Ken Brown, was with them; he was all right, Paul decided.  Not very talkative, not too interesting, and that's exactly what they needed.  He didn't quite make up for the lack of a drummer, but at least it was something different. 

The set was long, and in the cramped cellar, packed with dancing bodies, Paul thought the heat might actually make him sick.  He shared the single microphone with John, their cheeks brushing together, and Paul watched in a daze as the sweat dripped from John's hair.

John met his eye, winking, and some strange part of Paul hoped that Cynthia noticed.  Hoped that _Stuart_ noticed, if he happened to be out in the crowd somewhere.  Given John's current pattern, he probably was.  Suddenly Paul needed more than just a wink to set them apart, needed more than their usual, silent communication.  It was probably stupid to whirl around and press his back against John's side – they'd never done anything like it before, it could ruin the whole set if he knocked John over. 

It almost came as a surprise when John leaned back against him, sweat sticking their shoulder blades together even through their shirts.  He could feel every breath John took, felt John's voice vibrating in his chest, and there was something kind of magical about it.  He couldn't have kept himself from smiling even if he wanted to; the tremor of laughter in John's voice only made it better. 

When they faced the microphone again, Paul scanned the crowd, hoping to spot Stuart just so he could give him a _Look_.  Instead, he noticed a girl, a nice-looking one.  She seemed shy, covered modestly in a sweater, dancing close to a group of friends, only glancing at the stage area as if afraid to make eye contact.  Why she caught his attention, Paul didn't know.  She wasn't his type – if he even had a type, other than John.  It must have been the sweater, he would rationalize later; so determined to cover herself up that she surely had to have been on the verge of a heat stroke. 

Still, he unwittingly kept an eye on her for the remainder of the set, and by the time they finished, John had evidently noticed his distraction.  "Spot yourself a bird, then?" he muttered in Paul's ear as they unplugged their guitars. 

"Oh – dunno."  He hadn't quite intended to pursue it, but now he wondered how John would react.  John had moved on, got himself a girl; there was no reason Paul shouldn't be allowed to, too.  Not that there was much to move on from, Paul reminded himself.  "Might pull her." 

John only nodded, and that was all the convincing Paul needed.  He ducked into the crowd, which had only barely begun to disperse.  He'd last spotted her near the bar, which, naturally, was swarming with people.  Paul pushed through the crowd, angling through any free space he could find.  He hadn't realized he was being followed until he felt someone grip the back of his shirt, pulling in close.

"Slow down, would you?" John huffed.

Paul stopped, the crowd pressing them close.  "Didn't know I needed your help."  Paul could feel John's breath on his face, the heat of John's hand still clinging to his shirt. 

"Son," John said loftily, "you're lost without me, admit it." 

"Mm, right.  Too bloody ugly to get a girl by meself." 

It was a joke – sort of.  Paul was well aware that he didn't possess John's rugged good looks.  His face was too round, his eyebrows arched like a girl's.  He couldn't pull off the Teddy boy look if he tried – and, _God_ , did he try.  It looked so natural on John.  Paul was just – Paul.  Fat and average. 

There must have been a hint of seriousness in his tone, though, because John didn't laugh.  "You're having me on, aren't you?" 

Paul nodded, stunned.  Still, John frowned, leaning in closer.  "Christ, you actually think–" He paused, glancing around.  They were completely surrounded, yet somehow all alone.  No one paid them any mind, shuffling past them as if they were invisible in attempt to get to the bar.  "You're fuckin' gorgeous, Macca, really.  Thinking otherwise is an insult to the rest of us, all right?" 

Paul could feel his cheeks burning and he quickly looked away, clearing his throat around the sudden lump that had risen in it.  If they weren't in public, Paul had the wild thought that he might kiss him.  He felt almost drunk off the thought of it – the heat and the closeness and the exhaustion, all swirling around in his head in an incomprehensible haze of _want_. 

He saw the girl with the sweater out of the corner of his eye, weaving delicately through the crowd, careful to not touch anyone.  That was the best distraction Paul could hope for. 

"Come 'ead, there she is."

Perhaps one of the most frustrating things about trying to charm a girl with John was that John would always win them over within seconds.  Her name was Dorothy – "but you can call me Dot," she'd said between giggles, her face red as an apple – but John settled on the name Bubbles, and she couldn't take her eyes off him after that. 

It was almost surreal, watching this play out.  Paul slowly stopped talking when he realized John had Dot's attention, and John just kept _going_ , making jokes and laughing with her, putting his hand on her shoulder.  Vaguely, Paul realized he should be angry with John; John _had_ a girlfriend.  He was interfering with what was supposed to be Paul's conquest.  At the same time, though, Paul found himself distracted by Dot's face. 

Her eyes never left John's, her mouth open in an awed, half-smile that never seemed to fade.  She looked as if she fell in love with him, right there, without really knowing the first thing about him.  Paul couldn't even hate her for it, because he understood the feeling completely.  Looking at her now was like seeing himself just two short years ago – completely smitten and helpless to do anything to stop it.  He envied the attention, but he also knew how _good_ it felt. 

"So," Dot said, drawing out the word.  She was obviously uncomfortable, twirling her short hair around a fingertip, giggling nervously.  "Are you – are you here with someone?"  It was clearly a big step for her; she looked so proud of herself for asking that Paul actually felt bad for her, though there wasn't much he could do about it. 

"I am," John said, as if he hadn't spent the past five minutes sweeping her off her feet.  "I've got a girl around here somewhere – afraid I've lost her."  

"Blind as a bat, this one," Paul said fondly.  He smoothed a stray bit of John's hair, just to show that he _could_.  "Can't keep track of anyone." 

"Oh, aye?" John raised an eyebrow, something almost irritated in his expression.  "I've perfect vision, y'know, light perception and hand motion and all that."  He smiled at Dot.  "It's me who has to lead _him_ around." 

It probably wouldn't matter what they said, because Dot was giggling again anyway.  This time, though, Paul realized she'd redirected her attention.  Her wide, eager eyes were trained on him, and suddenly Paul found he didn't want her interest at all.  Not that she wasn't a sweet girl – she was.  She was everything he would have wanted, if only she'd come around a few years sooner.  A part of him had fallen for John's charms all over again, and all of this seemed so _unfair_.  He had to have a girlfriend, he knew he did, but looking at Dot was like looking into the future, and it was a future that involved catering to her every whim, taking her out and buying her things, settling for domesticity when he could have so much _more_. 

All Paul wanted was to lie in bed with John with the sun pouring in, the record player going as they dozed against the same pillow.  No matter where they ended up, famous or not; even if they ended up in a hovel out in the country somewhere, forced into seclusion for being the two biggest abominations to set foot in Liverpool, Paul thought he could be happy with a future like that. 

Once John had located Cynthia (after a subtle nudge and a whisper from Paul), the four of them moved to a quieter area to talk.  The _five_ of them, rather, since Stuart chose that moment to appear from amidst the dwindling crowd.  Paul's good mood faded in an instant.  He'd grown somewhat used to Stuart, at times even came to tolerate him, but every time they saw each other it was like starting all over again – Paul would hate him until Stuart proved he'd remember his place. 

Tonight, though, Stuart walked right up to John and hooked an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close in something that was like a short, sideways hug.  John laughed, accepting the apparent congratulations and the offered drink, pulling away from Stuart after ruffling his hair.  In that instant, Paul understood all of John's outbursts, understood how it felt to be so angry that it burned in his fists, his pulse pounding like a mad thing, so overwhelmed with _hatred_ that he couldn't quite see straight. 

Stuart turned to Paul and smiled – fucking _smiled_ – and there was a second in which Paul could actually see himself punching Stuart's stupid face.  The vision was so clear that Paul almost believed he had done it, could feel the satisfying sting in his knuckles.  When he came back to himself, however, he was only standing there like an idiot.  

"All right, Stu?" he asked hollowly, only because it earned him a brief look of approval from John. 

"All right," Stuart replied.  "Who's your friend?" 

As the introductions were made, Paul felt a small buzz of panic somewhere in the back of his mind.  If Stuart stole Dot's attention, then he'd be in a position to be closer to John than ever – they could double date, be out together every weekend while Paul was left behind.  He made up his mind, then; Dot was going to be his if she was anybody's. 

Stuart, however, barely said two words to her before turning back to John; Dot was suddenly engrossed in conversation with Cynthia; and Paul didn't know when he'd become the fifth wheel with his own bloody friends. 

"I need a drink," he announced, sliding away from the table with overt care.  Lately, it had been becoming increasingly easy for him to stay calm despite whatever obstacle John threw at him.  Tonight, though, his nerves were all on end, fire prickling his fingertips, and remaining diplomatic felt nearly impossible.  "Want anything?" he asked Dot as an afterthought.  She shook her head, ducking down to hide a smile. 

The Casbah only served coffee and soda, so Paul settled with a coffee, though he longed for something stronger to quiet his mind.  Still, this would do for now, and it wouldn't be hard to convince John to go for drinks after.  At least it would give them something to do. 

When Paul returned to the table, Dot was gone.  "She head home, then?" he asked, raising his voice over the record Mona had put on.  John and Stuart were absorbed in whispered conversation, snickering under their breath, and Paul had half a mind to spill his coffee on them just to get them to look up. 

It was Cynthia who responded, smiling in a strange, knowing way.  "She's outside in the garden.  Said she felt a bit woozy." 

"Oh," Paul said uselessly.  He didn't quite want to sit back down and be a part of this again, not if he was going to be ignored.  His gaze shifted once more to John, who was laughing loudly now, clutching Stuart's shoulder for support.  "I'm going to go check on her, then."   

Cynthia nodded eagerly, entirely too excited by the prospect, and Paul maneuvered out of the stifling club alone. 

He hadn't realized how hard it had been to breathe until he stepped out into the cool night air, and suddenly he was rather grateful for the opportunity to be outside.  A few others had stepped out as well, standing around and smoking, while others occupied the little tables and chairs Mona had put out.  Paul found Dot sitting by herself, seemingly as far away as she could manage.

She perked up the second she saw him, sitting up straighter and smiling wide.  Didn't look woozy at all, if Paul was honest with himself, but he found he didn't care.  If this had been set up to get them alone, it worked in his favor anyway. 

"Feeling better?" he asked, taking a seat beside her. 

Even in the dark, he could see the blush rise onto her face.  "Oh – yes.  Just stuffy in there, you know." 

Paul wasn't quite sure how to proceed.  He'd never felt so detached from someone; looking at her now, he could see the excitement, the nervousness, the drunken buzz from the spark of chemistry between them.  It all played out on her face so plainly, and he could imagine the way her heart must be racing.  He almost felt guilty for not sharing the feeling – almost wished that he _could_. 

"Here," he said finally, pushing his coffee into her hands.  "Might help." 

"Thank you."  Her eyes locked on his, and a genuine gratitude was shining through her expression.  Paul couldn't help but smile back. 

He looked away just as quickly, fishing around in his pocket for a cigarette.  She leaned in closer, her shoulder bumping his as he lit up.  "Got one of those for me?" she asked, and Paul's skin crawled.  He never saw Cynthia smoke; Brigitte Bardot didn't smoke in Paul's favorite pictures of her.  It just didn't look good, didn't look _classy_. Paul didn't want to kiss a mouth like an ashtray unless that mouth was John's, and maybe that was the crux of it.  Paul had a very set idea of what John might taste like, could still remember the faint mix of beer and smoke he'd tasted on his lips after they kissed, and he didn't want to experience that with anyone else.    

Paul pulled away from her, pushing out a mouthful of smoke.  "Girls shouldn't smoke, should they?"

Dot stared at him, wide eyed.  "Oh, I dunno.  That is – I do."  Paul wrinkled his nose, and she quickly amended, "But I don't _have_ to.  It's just an occasional thing." 

"Good."  He flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette.  "D'you fancy going out, then?"

He hadn't quite expected her to say agree so quickly – he didn't know what he was expecting, except that he found himself surprised when she nodded rapidly, fingers pressed to her lips to hide a smile. 

He took her out to the pictures the following night, and she was such a nervous wreck it was rather endearing.  She let him put his arm around her, listened to his stupid dentist stories;  by the time he walked her back to the bus stop, she'd warmed up to him so much that he probably could have kissed her if he wanted to.  He almost did, as they waited for the bus to arrive, but he could still remember John's face just inches from his own; the soft, vulnerable look in his eyes; the way his lips felt against Paul's.  Paul wasn't ready to lose that.  Not yet. 

"We're playing at the Casbah again next Saturday," Paul told her instead.  "Wouldn't mind seeing you there." 

She smiled in that quiet, infectious way of hers; it wasn't entirely flattering, but it was so unrestrained and _real_ , like she'd just gotten the best news in the world, that Paul couldn't help but love it.  Even more so, he loved knowing that he was the one to make her smile that way.   

It was set, after that.  The Quarrymen would play at the Casbah every Saturday, and Dot would always be there.  It was almost perfect, and the only thing that kept it from being so was Stuart.  He only showed up every other week or so, but every time he did, he'd steal John's attention so fully that Paul couldn't focus on anything else.  Even his conversations with Dot fell flat, because he kept trying to listen in, making sure they weren't talking about him, _excluding_ him. 

"Y'know," Stuart said to John one night, his voice low.  Paul had gotten used to picking up on their words across the table, under the music and general noise of the club.  "If you ever get tired of answering to Mimi, I've room in my flat."

Rage colored Paul's face red, prickled in the back of his skull like a thousand needles.  He couldn't even hear John's answer over the pulsing roar in his ears.  This wasn't going to happen – this _couldn't_ happen.  He had to fight for John's attention as things stood now; how much worse would it be if they lived together?  He'd have to see Stuart every time he wanted to see John, would have to deal with Stuart hovering over their shoulders every time they practiced, every time they wrote together.  No more quiet nights in bed, singing to each other and imagining their future. 

"You've got to be joking," Paul blurted, anger causing his words to shake. 

"Paul?" Dot asked, gentle, her hand on his arm like a match to a fuse.

Stuart blinked at him innocently, finally surfacing from his and John's huddled conversation.  His eyes were wide and confused, as if he honestly had _no idea_ he was crossing a line, and that just made it worse. 

"Problem?" John asked, leaning on his sprawled elbows.  It was a challenge, that much was clear, and Paul wanted to flip the table over on John and Stuart both – would have, maybe, if Cynthia hadn't been seated on John's other side. 

"Why don't we just ring the fuckin' church bells and get it over with?"

Stuart's face went somewhat pink, and Paul realized he'd never seen him angry before.  The abrupt, hard set of Stuart's jaw made it clear that if he wasn't angry yet, he was certainly working on it, and Paul was suddenly dying to push him over the edge – to finally just have it out with him. 

"What're you on about?" Stuart asked, and his voice still held a forced thread of calm. 

"Yeah, Paulie," John pressed, a cruel smile curling at his lips.  "Tell us." 

Against his better judgment, Paul took the bait and swallowed it whole.  "You act like a couple of bloody little queers, the both of you," he spat.  "Always following each other around, the _touching_ – it's a fuckin' wonder the rumors haven't started already.  Well–" Paul amended, laughing humorlessly.  "People already think it about you, don't they, Johnny?  Pete warned me about you years ago." 

The color drained from John's face, his mouth falling open – if anyone had crossed a line, it was Paul, but he couldn't make himself _stop_.  His ears were ringing, the club fading out to a dizzy blur around him.  "Yeah, _Pete_.  Your best mate?  Wonder where he's fucked off to?  Probably couldn't wait to get away from _you_." 

Dot's fingers dug into his arm.  "Paul, _stop it_." 

"Would you stop fuckin' touching me?"  He yanked out of her grasp, staggering to his feet.  "Fucking Christ, you do your face all tarty but you wear those stupid sweaters – it's _embarrassing_." 

Dot flinched back as if he'd slapped her, raising her hands to her face to hide the tears that sprung to her eyes.  Cynthia was out of her seat in an instant, rushing to Dot's side. 

Paul whirled back to John, who'd already carefully hidden the hurt away behind a solid brick wall.  "You two move in together, and _everyone_ will think you're bloody fuckin' faggots, and you'll drag the whole band down with you." 

"Is that what you think?" John asked – _demanded._   It was like looking into the eye of a storm, and Paul's blood ran cold.  He'd wanted to get to _Stuart_ , not John – this was all completely wrong, completely backward, and it was too late to take it back. 

_Or was it?_

" _You're_ the one acting like a jealous fuckin' tart.  You think people don't talk about you, with that girl face of yours?"  John pushed out a short laugh, cruel and biting.  "How do you think you look now?  Fuckin' crying over _nothing_." 

Paul wiped quickly at his cheeks, surprised to find them wet.  "I–"

"We're _mates_ , Stu and I.  We're in _college_.  Living together is what mates in college _do_ – but you wouldn't know about that, would you?"  If John wanted a response, he didn't wait for one.  He only leaned across the table, lowering his voice.  "You've been tagging along from the start, following me around like some lost little dog.  Did you think you actually fit in?  Did you think I _liked_ you?  Only kept you around 'cause you're all right on that guitar of yours, the rest is just babysitting." 

" _John_ ," Paul tried, desperate.  The anger had drained from him as quickly as it had come, leaving him shaking and embarrassed in the aftermath.  He wanted to claw through John's barrier, he wanted the _truth_ , because he knew this wasn't it.  John always said things he didn't mean, it was just hard to remember that now, with John completely closed off, not a single trace of the warmth Paul had always been so attracted to. 

"I think we're done here," John cut in, standing.  Stuart followed his lead, and it was only then that Paul became aware of Cynthia, still sitting at Dot's side.

She hugged Dot once more, tucking her hair behind her ear.  "He didn't mean it, all right?  It's all right."  It seemed backward to hear that from her, about _him_ , when people were always saying it about John.  John was the one who lashed out, hurt people without trying to.  But here was Dot, sniffling quietly and wiping the remaining tears from her eyes, all because of Paul. 

Cynthia left them shortly after, but not before shooting Paul a hard, scolding look.  Paul took it in stride, nodding in quiet acknowledgement – he deserved it, after all. 

"Dot, love."  He slid an arm around her shoulders and she twisted away, not quite meeting his eyes.  "I'm sorry.  I don't know what I was – I think you're lovely, you know I do." 

The Casbah suddenly seemed too loud, too crowded for a conversation like this.  "Let's go somewhere.  Please." 

Dot must not have hated him entirely, because she nodded, dabbing her cheeks on her sleeve. 

They ended up walking aimlessly down the darkened streets, Paul's arm around her stiff shoulders.  His mind drifted to the journal once more – he hadn't touched it months, hadn't really needed to.  After last time, there'd been a small, irrational part of him that wanted to get rid of it entirely.  In the end, he'd only stuck it back in its hiding place, determined not to touch it again unless he really needed to.  This seemed to qualify – he'd fucked up with John and Dot both in one go.  While he was relatively certain he could make up with Dot, John, as always, was the wild card. 

Paul waited until Dot slowly began to relax against him before he dared to speak.  Whether she'd forgiven him or just gotten tired of holding herself so rigidly, Paul didn't care – it gave him the opportunity he was waiting for.  He squeezed her closer, kissing the top of her head. 

"I'm sorry," he said again.  "I didn't mean it.  You know that, right?"

She nodded.  "Yeah.  I know." 

Paul's head was buzzing – now that the journal had crossed his mind, it seemed to call out to him.  He almost wanted to leave Dot there, to run straight home and change this whole night around, but he couldn't do that.  He'd hurt her once already. 

"If I could change all of this," he said delicately, dampening his lips.  "Would you want me to?" 

Dot peered up at him, her brow furrowed.  "What do you mean?" 

"I mean – I dunno."  He shrugged.  "Y'know how people say if they could go back and change something, stop themselves from doing something, they would.  I'm asking if you'd want me to." 

One of Dot's characteristic little giggles slipped out, and Paul was surprised by how comforting it was.  "That's a funny question," she said, leaning against him. 

"I'm serious," he pressed.  Whatever she said, he'd do it.  He was leaving this in her hands.  "I'd change this whole night around, if you wanted."

"Yeah?"  She smiled up at him.  "How do you reckon that?" 

They slowed to a stop, and Paul's heart was pounding.  He shouldn't do this – it'd only make things worse, he _knew_ , but he'd gone so long keeping it to himself.  He was the only one who knew John had died – was forced to grieve for him, then face the reality of bringing him back.  To have that responsibility still in his hands, to know he could change anything on a whim – it was too much for one person to bear.  For once, he just needed someone to tell him what to do. 

"Listen," he said, and his voice was shaking.  "This is serious.  I have to tell you something, and it's something I've never told anyone." 

Dot slid from his hold, the smile fading from her face.  She looked resigned, as if she'd been dreading this conversation for months.  The cool October air swirled around him, making him shiver.  He hadn't realized how warm she was, how strangely alone he felt without her.

"Dot?"

"I know," she said quietly.  Suddenly that giggling girl he'd met a few weeks ago seemed like she'd come from another world entirely.  This Dot was too cold, a thousand miles away from him.  "You're queer." 

" _What?_ " he sputtered, staggering back.  Time seemed to stop, the night silent and cold.  Dot was looking at him with such disappointment in her eyes – but it wasn't heartbreak.  It was very near disgust.  As if he'd lied to her, used her, and she finally caught him in the act.  And, _God_ , that wasn't it at all – words started spilling out of his mouth like vomit, each one tripping over the next.  "No, no – _no_ , that's not what I – I'm _not_ –" 

"Paul."  Her voice remained quiet, though it had a hard edge that shut him up in an instant.  "You've been taking me out for weeks, and you haven't once kissed me proper.  Haven't even looked like you wanted to."  She shook her head, smiling bitterly.  "I wouldn't've minded that, would've thought you were a gentleman, if you didn't forget all about me whenever John was around." 

Paul could only stare at her.  He could feel the beginnings of tears prickling in the corners of his eyes, and he felt ridiculous for it, worn out and empty.  All this time she'd been watching quietly, and somehow, she'd managed to piece it all together.  "Dot…"  It came out weaker than he'd planned, his voice breaking pitifully. 

"I still wasn't sure, thought it was impossible, until tonight.  I knew you were overreacting, but it's what John said, I think, that made it all make sense.  You're jealous." 

His pride, his very sense of survival, told him to keep denying it.  No matter what she said, she had no _proof_ , and this could all be dismissed as the paranoia of an insecure little girl.  In the end, he couldn't say anything at all, his throat tight and his mouth dry, and that alone was damning enough. 

"I like you, Paul," Dot said eventually.  "I just – if you're – if you're _seeing_ John, then I don't – I don't want to be some girl you're using just to look normal." 

"I'm not," he whispered.  Whether he was answering her or still trying to deny it, he didn't know, but Dot's expression softened. 

"We can fix this."  She took his hands.  "You're confused, is all.  I can help you." 

Paul's vision blurred and he had to bite his lip to keep the tears from falling.  This was a good thing, it had to be, but why it feel so _terrible_?  Even her gentle smile now seemed like a threat, and Paul almost wanted to look away.  But what would that mean?  Dot was offering him a way out, a solution to all of his problems, and he'd be stupid – he'd be _sick_ – not to take it. 

She drifted closer, lifting her face to his.  She hovered there, a mere breath away, before pulling back once more, frowning. 

"First, I deserve to know…"  She trailed off, her nerves clearly trying to get the best of her.  She cleared her throat, squeezing Paul's hands.  "Have you ever – um.  Y'know.  With John, or – or with _anyone_ , have you..?"

Paul shook his head stiffly, knocking loose a few stray tears.  "We kissed," he admitted, his voice cracking damply.  It felt as if he was controlling himself from faraway, that this was all some distant dream.  "It was – barely.  Just for a second." 

He didn't miss the way her nose crinkled slightly, her eyes cutting away.  She looked torn, _upset_ , but something dark like hatred lingered just under the surface, and Paul's heart sank. 

" _Please_."  He grabbed her hands properly now, squeezing back.  "You can't tell anyone.  I – my whole _life_ – _John_ …"

"I won't tell," she said softly, hesitantly.  "I wouldn't do that to you.  Or – or him."  Dot looked up at him once more, searching his eyes.  "It was a mistake, wasn't it?  You didn't mean it." 

Paul nodded rapidly – what else could he do?  "We were drunk, we – we were _stupid_ –"

"It's all right.  That – it's all right.  It makes _sense_."  Paul didn't know if Dot was trying to convince him or herself, but her words sounded frail either way.  "It was a mistake and now you're confused, oh Paul." 

She kissed his cheek first, very gentle.  "Poor baby," she whispered, drifting down to his lips.  There was a moment in which he almost flinched away, but then she was kissing him, her mouth soft and delicate against his own.  He could only stand there and let it happen, let her erase the last lingering memories of John, let her replace the roughness, the taste of beer and cigarettes, with her own gentle touch.  When he kissed her back, she tasted of coffee and sweetness, and Paul melted into her, sliding his hands from hers so he could wrap them around her waist. 

It was the first time in over a year that he stopped thinking about John.  He suddenly didn't want to be anywhere but here, kissing Dot and holding her close, feeling her smile against his lips. 

Maybe she was right.  Maybe they could fix him after all. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'mmmmmm so sorry I'm a huge pile of garbage, I don't know why this chapter took me so long?? I struggled with it a lot for some reason, so I absolutely have to thank my best bud [Kenzie](http://twinkpaul.tumblr.com) for supporting me and keeping me motivated. So if you've been waiting all this time for an update, send her a thank you card or a fruit basket or something, because this couldn't have happened without her. She also betaed this for me wahoo. 
> 
> I'm still not giving up on this fic, etc., etc., and hopefully next time it won't take me 30 years to update.
> 
> By the way, I've started using the tag "dear friend fic" on Tumblr to post updates, answer questions, and basically for anything else related to this fic. So if you want to keep up with updates and stuff, tracking that tag might be a good way to do it. I track the tag as well, so if anyone ever wants me to see something pertaining to the fic, feel free to pop that tag on there and I'll check it out!

"I'm not saying you have to.  I'm just saying you should, y'know, if you're trying to hold my attention."

 Paul had spent the last of his earnings from the Casbah on the small pile of clothes that were now strewn out on Dot's bed: Little black skirts and tops, all very Brigitte Bardot.  Dot had complaints about all of it, telling him that her thighs would show—maybe even her _knickers_ —as if that wasn't the point. 

The band's short residency at the Casbah Club had come to an end just a few weeks prior.  Paul had saved his profits for as long as he could, but it was November now, and Dot was covering herself up more than ever, donning sweaters upon sweaters and hiding any trace of a desirable figure.  It was about time he did something about it.  

She could at least be _grateful_. 

Dot picked up a miniskirt between two fingers, frowning at it.  "Paul—"

"Aren't you supposed to be fixing me?"  It came out a little harsher than he had intended, but she was making it increasingly difficult for him to stay rational about all of this.  Kissing kept his mind off John well enough, but Dot refused to go any further with him.  As soon as they separated, his thoughts would inevitably drift back to John, who very likely wouldn't refuse sex to anyone for any reason; who was compatible with Paul in every other aspect of their lives.  They could very nearly finish each other's sentences when they were on good terms; it was almost painful to think about the potential they had as romantic partners.

The guilt would set in afterward.  He had Dot, and she was lovely, she was a _girl_ , but she _wasn't trying hard enough_. 

"How am I supposed to get better if you go around looking like a grandmother?  _He_ looks better than you, is what I'm saying.  That's your problem." 

Her cheeks went pink, jaw clenching.  There was something she wanted to say, and Paul wanted to grab her and shake it out of her.  Instead he stood there, hands on his hips, waiting. 

"I'll try them on," she said finally, glaring at the floor.  She gathered up the clothes and clutched them to her chest, carrying them off to the bathroom.

Paul lit up a cigarette, staring after her.  The clothes would help, but she still wouldn't be perfect.  There wasn't time to do anything else about it—not tonight.  They were supposed to meet up with John and Cynthia in an hour for their weekend double date, which Paul would have been tempted to skip out on, if it weren't an opportunity to see John without having to endure Dot's interrogations.  But every week, it ended with Dot scolding him for his wandering eyes, for paying too much attention to John, as if it was his fault she was so dull in comparison. 

Last week's date had resulted in their worst fight yet. 

"I don't think you want to get better at all," Dot had snarled, right in his face, making his fist twitch.  "You'd go to him in a heartbeat if he actually wanted you.  But that's just it, isn't it?  He doesn't, and now you're using me to make him jealous." 

"That's not true."  It was a miracle that he had remained as calm as he did, and it was like an awakening—her rage, all her unnecessary feelings were clouding her mind, driving her mad, and he felt suddenly superior.  He'd tucked all his feelings away in a little box in the corner of his mind, to keep him from dwelling on John, from feeling sick and pained every time he had to go home with her instead of him.  He'd watched her, with her red face and watery eyes, and it felt like a million years since he'd allowed himself to care that openly about anything. 

"If you want me to talk to you, give me something to respond to.  If you want me to look at you, give me something to look at.  You can't blame me for having a good time with my best mate." 

"I can blame you for not _trying!_ " 

At least she couldn't say that now.  He'd bought the clothes, and honestly, what more could he do? 

***

Dot ended up wearing the miniskirt, covering her arms with a leather jacket rather than one of her dumb sweaters.  Even though she kept pulling at the skirt as they walked down the darkened streets, as if she could stretch it to make it reach her knees, the effect was powerful—she looked sexy, probably for the first time in her life.

When they met up with John and Cynthia outside the cinema, they were greeted by John's low whistle.  "Look at this!  The Virgin Mary hath been rid of her sweaters!"  He winked at Paul.  "Knew you had in you, son."

"Stop it, you," Cynthia chided.  To Dot, she added, "you look lovely." 

Dot ducked her head, hiding from the compliment with a red face.  This, of course, was the problem—it left Paul with nowhere else to look.  He held John's gaze, letting himself be warmed by his smile. 

They'd made up rather quickly after Paul's meltdown at the Casbah, and maybe it was because John understood that kind of anger, understood that Paul didn't mean it.  Regardless, at their next practice, John had acted as if nothing had happened, and Paul was quick to follow suit.  John stopped bringing Stuart around unannounced, would specifically tell Paul when he'd be around, and that was that. 

When they bought their tickets and made their way inside, Dot was hovering close, her fingers digging into Paul's elbow.

"Hang on."  She tugged him back, holding him still at the start of the row they'd chosen, toward the back of the theater.  They always sat in the back, mainly for John and Cyn's benefit, since Dot would never let Paul sneak his hand up her skirt.  John and Cynthia had already started edging down the row, but they stopped too, looking up curiously.

"I want to sit next to Cyn," Dot announced.  She glanced at Paul meaningfully, her fingers biting into his arm a little harder. 

"Well, I want to sit next to Paulie," John replied, his voice high and dramatic, batting his eyelashes for emphasis.  He reached past her and, before Dot could protest, grabbed Paul's hand and dragged him onto the row. 

Paul shrugged in answer to Dot's scowl—what was he supposed to do?  Whether he needed to be cured or not, he wasn't going to let himself lose his best friend in the process.  He squeezed John's fingers, biting back a smile when John squeezed back.    

He could feel Dot's eyes on him as the film started, the auditorium going dark.  She grabbed his hand a few minutes in, holding it tight, and Paul stroked his thumb against hers dutifully. 

"It's all right," he whispered against her ear.  She shivered.  "He's ignoring me—look." 

John had one arm hooked around Cynthia's shoulders, his fingers tapping against her upper arm.  In his free hand was a cigarette, which he smoked as he squinted intently at the screen.  Paul had already forgotten what they were watching, but whatever it was, it seemed to have already captured John's interest. 

"He was just messing about.  Watch the picture, love.  Relax." 

Dot sighed, glancing once more at John.  He'd moved, but only to whisper to Cynthia, his back to the pair of them.  Dot squeezed Paul's hand, letting out a soft, relieved sigh.    

After that, Dot watched the film with rapt interest.  On Paul's other side, he grew distinctly aware of the subtle movements of John's arm, Cynthia's breathy gasps as she squirmed in her seat.  Paul grumbled to himself, shifting uncomfortably. 

On screen, a glamorous blonde dabbed tears from her eyes, moaning about her broken heart to the emptiness of her bedroom.  Paul rolled his eyes.  Once upon a time—it felt like a lifetime ago—he might have been able to get off on this.  The actress was pretty enough, lonely enough; easily the type that every young boy wanted to rescue.  Now it was just… boring. 

Paul turned his attention back to Dot, the glow of the screen reflected in her eyes.  She really was pretty, with her innocent, almost childlike face, contrasted now with the leather, the miniskirt.  The skirt was stretched tight across her lap, the space between her thighs shadowed enticingly in the darkness of the theater. 

If Dot noticed him shifting closer, she didn't react.  She didn't move at all until Paul's fingertips slid across her thigh and upward, toward the beckoning warmth of the shadows.  A slap stung across the back of his hand and Paul jerked away.  Even in the darkness, he could see the redness of her cheeks, her expression twisted in embarrassment and anger. 

" _What are you doing?_ " she hissed.  She clutched at the edge of the skirt, crossing her legs. 

Paul threw up his hands defensively, too pissed off to bother answering.  Dot angled her body away from him, her legs sticking out into the aisle.  Of course he had to get stuck with the biggest prude in Liverpool—that was just his luck.  Next to him, he heard Cynthia finish off with a shaky sigh, and he chanced a look just in time to see her slim hand sliding into John's lap. 

Paul tore his eyes away, staring determinedly at the screen, heat rising under his collar.  He could hear the quiet, careful tug of a zipper, followed by a soft sound of encouragement from John.  He felt John move, angling into a better position, and his shoulder pressed against Paul's, burning even through the layers of their clothes. 

Paul had to look again—he _had_ to.  His entire being ached with the desire, the sheer knowledge that, mere inches away, John's face would be relaxed in pleasure, his dick wrapped in Cynthia's hand.  It took all Paul's strength to keep his eyes forward, his palms sweaty against his thighs. 

He tried to pay attention to the film, but the dialogue seemed to blur together, the images random and meaningless.  He hardly recognized any of the characters, and even as they stood outside a car, fighting, Paul realized he had no idea what was going on.  He wondered if it was too late to get into the plot; he couldn't remember how long the film had even been playing, though it felt like they'd been there for hours. 

A hand clutching his knee made him jump, and he instinctively looked to Dot.  She continued to ignore him, her arms folded across her chest, and a cold sweat broke out along the back of his neck.  John's fingers squeezed into his leg, his head leaned back against the seat, and there was nothing Paul could have done to stop his focus from narrowing in on John's lap. 

John came with a quiet grunt, back arching, his hand climbing higher along Paul's thigh, his fingers grappling at Paul's.  Cynthia had caught the mess with a napkin, and now she was leaning in for a kiss, and Paul felt dirty as his fingers tangled with John's. 

John twisted away from him only seconds later, tucking himself back in his jeans.  It was probably an accident, Paul knew; John wasn't paying attention, was too lost in Cynthia to realize what he was doing. That didn't stop him from thinking about it for the rest of the film—the feeling of John's trembling fingers clinging to his own, the fact that he'd all but held John's hand as he got off.  The realization kept hitting him, over and over, making him dizzy with disbelief.  He'd almost convinced himself it hadn't happened at all by the time the credits began to roll.

He'd have to take a different bus to get Dot home, and he fully expected John to sneak off with Cynthia somewhere to finish what they'd started.  So when the four of them clustered outside the theater to say their goodnights and go their separate ways, he was surprised when John said, "Come back to mine after you shake off Bubbles?"  He shot a wink at Dot to soften the blow, but her face was stony.  She turned her angry gaze on Paul for the first time since he'd touched her, a hard, meaningful look in her eyes. 

"I don't think that's a good idea," she said pointedly.  Paul knew she was right.  It was a horrible idea, especially now, with the soft sound John made as he came still ringing in Paul's ears.  But Dot was looking at him like a stern mother, and it wasn't fair that she could ignore him all evening just to control him when convenient. 

So he laughed, shrugging her off as he lit up a cigarette, then holding out the match for John.  "Not a good idea, she says."  He grinned at John, whose eyes glimmered as he leaned in to light up his own cigarette. 

"She's right, y'know.  Don't know how I'll keep me hands to meself once I get you alone." 

Cynthia laughed indulgently, but Dot's glare only narrowed.  " _P_ _aul_." 

"What?" he snapped.  "Not like you have a better offer, is it?  Why would I go home alone if I don't have to?" 

Dot reared up, a thin sheen of tears making her eyes glisten.  She didn't let them fall, tilting her head upward and blinking rapidly.  "Fine," she snarled.  "I can walk home myself." 

Paul only shrugged and Dot turned away, trotting down the street, awkward in her heels. 

"Dorothy!" Cynthia called after her.  She turned to John, her face pinched in worry, and kissed his cheek quickly.  "I'm going to—goodnight." 

She cast Paul a strange look as she took off after Dot, who had come to a reluctant stop at the corner to wait.  He and John watched until Cynthia made it to Dot, and she waved once more before the pair of them disappeared around the corner. 

John let out a heavy breath, shaking his head.  "What'd you do to her?" 

"Dunno," Paul lied.  "Tried to reach up her skirt."

John's laughter echoed into the night, and any guilt Paul might have felt faded along with it. 

***

It was late by the time they got back to John's, and they had to sneak up the stairs to keep from waking Mimi.  The incident at the theater seemed far away and insignificant in the safety of John's bedroom, where they sat on his bed and tried to write.  John ended up doodling all over the page, adding silly phrases to any meaningful lyric Paul managed to write, and in the end Paul had no choice but to join him. 

They were laughing together, writing a strange, raunchy sort of poem about a cat with three legs when Paul noticed it: Mostly hidden under the collar of John's shirt was a mark, pink and fading, but still perfectly recognizable.  Paul shut down the surge of jealousy that tried to rise inside him and instead forced a smile, biting on the end of his pen. 

"You and Cyn've been busy, I see." 

John blinked up at him, his wide grin fading into something more hesitant, confused.  "What?" 

Paul tapped his pen against the base of his own neck, giving John a knowing smirk. 

If he'd thought about it, he would have expected John to make a dirty joke, maybe even share the story in graphic detail.  What he didn't expect was for John to sit up sharply, slapping a hand over the area as if hiding the mark would erase Paul's memory of it. 

"Yeah," he said quickly, his face pink.  He wouldn't meet Paul's eyes, tugging his collar up and up like a turtle trying to hide in its shell.  "Yeah, we—yeah." 

Paul frowned.  "All right?" 

John shook his head, schooling his expression.  "A bit young for that kind of talk, aren't you?" he asked coolly, letting the collar drop. 

"I'm not a _virgin_ , John." 

John had already turned his attention back to the notepad, his nose almost touching the page as he concentrated on a doodle.  Paul sighed, rolling his eyes.  Whatever John was hiding, Paul couldn't be bothered to find out.  For now, John was here, John was _his_ , and that was enough. 

*** 

It wasn't hard to win Dot back over—it never was.  The only thing worthwhile Paul had gotten out of the almost-writing session with John were a few sappy love lyrics, which he sang for her the next time she agreed to see him.  He'd barely finished the song before she was giggling like she used to, red-faced and smitten.  Not for the first time, Paul found himself wishing he could love her, love her _properly_.  They ended up spending the evening kissing, and Paul didn't push her.  He only held her in his lap, arms hooked tight around her waist.

"I don't mean to be horrible to you," he murmured against her lips, which he felt curve into a smile.  "You really are lovely, so lovely, I don't deserve you at all." 

Dot swatted his chest playfully, breaking away from him entirely to giggle.  She gazed down at him fondly, her eyes sparkling in the low light of his bedroom.  Her fingers combed through his hair and she dipped down, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead. 

"You deserve anything you want," she whispered.  Paul's heart skipped and he leaned back to study her expression. 

She nodded, not quite meeting his eyes, her face red as a cherry.  Fingers curled around his wrists, guiding his hands to her chest. 

"Dot—"

"This isn't about curing you."  Her face was serious despite the blush that still lingered, her voice wavering.  "I don't know what you did with John that night."

"I didn't—"

Dot laid a finger over his lips.  "And I don't care.  I'm tired of fighting for your attention.  Just for once, I want to be the center of your world.  I want you to forget he exists, even if it's just for tonight." 

That was all the encouragement Paul needed.  He hadn't been with a girl in so long, since this whole thing with John started consuming him, and he wasn't stupid enough to turn her down when she was finally— _finally_ —giving in. 

Paul hooked his hands under her thighs, rolling her gently onto the bed.  He knelt in the spread of her legs, curled over her as she stretched out against the blankets.  There was a trace of fear in her wide, trust-filled eyes and Paul stroked his knuckles over her cheekbone.  Her eyes fluttered closed.

"I've never—" she breathed.

"I know, love."  He could feel her trembling beneath him.  She shifted, her legs opening wider, causing her skirt—one of the ones he'd given her, Paul noticed, a thrill shooting down his spine—to ride up, revealing the soft pink of her knickers.  A dark spot in the middle drew his attention like a magnet and Paul groaned quietly, his fingers sliding down the soft, creamy skin of her thigh to press against the damp cotton. 

Dot gasped, her back arching, legs clamping against him like a sprung trap.  Paul stilled, his free hand moving to smooth through her hair. 

"Shh, it's all right."  He slipped his hand from her skirt entirely, cradling her face as he pressed a kiss to the corner of her parted lips.  She shivered, her nails grazing against the back of his neck. 

"Please," she whimpered, and that was his undoing. 

He was slow, careful, undressing her as if she were made of glass.  His lips trailed along her ribs, his hands mapping her sides and downward, hooking his fingertips under the waist of her knickers.  Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, and Paul met her eyes one last time before tugging the garment slowly downward. 

He was hit first with the overwhelming scent of her.  It made his chest twist, a surge of want flaring through him.  He rose back up to kiss her, too hot suddenly in his clothes.  He yanked at his shirt and Dot reached up to help him, her hands smoothing up the curve of his back as they pulled it up and over his head. 

Paul sat back for a moment, gazing down at her.  Dot held his gaze, holding her lower lip between her teeth self-consciously.  Her hands rose to rest on his belt and she looked at him hesitantly, as if he'd really stop her after they'd come this far.  As Dot's trembling fingers slowly unhooked Paul's belt, his mind launched back to that afternoon in the unopened Casbah, his head against John's thigh as they painted the walls. 

Paul shook his head harshly, as if to physically dislodge the thought.  As he watched his belt slide open, though, all he could think about how he could have done this to John; that it could be his fingers slowly dragging down John's zipper.  His hips jerked at the thought and Dot smiled up at him, and this was bad— _horrible_.  

He remembered the mark on John's neck, imagined him cradled between Cynthia's thighs, just like this.  Cynthia didn't seem the type to mark him that way, but now possessiveness was roaring within Paul like a hurricane, and he wanted to cover John's skin in marks of his own.    

Dot pulled Paul down for another kiss as he slithered out of his jeans, and he poured all his greed and jealousy into it, his mouth pushing against hers ruthlessly.  Dot groaned against his lips, her arms looping around his shoulders and squeezing him close.  It wasn't enough.  He dragged his lips over her cheek, down the line of her neck, nipping at her collarbone and making her squirm, her fingers tangling in his hair and holding him in place. 

Even with his eyes closed, this was still so overwhelmingly _her_.  She smelled of flowers and bubblegum, along with a hard, chemical scent that was probably hairspray.  He couldn't have pretended she was anyone else even if he wanted to—and _God_ , he hated himself, but he wanted to.  There wasn't much he wouldn't give in that moment if it meant he could have John under him instead, and that was probably a sign that they should stop, try again when his head was in the right place, but he was too far gone for that. 

He slid a hand over her torso, his fingers drifting over her stomach and downward, earning a soft moan as he pushed through the hair.  She was wet, so _wet_ —her body seemed to welcome the press of his fingers, opening up and enveloping him in warmth.  Dot cried out, her legs curling as she grabbed at his free hand, tangling their fingers together and holding on tight. 

"I've got you," Paul murmured, squeezing her hand.  "I've got you, it's all right." 

All he needed was to bury himself inside of her.  Maybe then he'd stop wondering what it would be like to do this with John, replaying that sound from the theater over and over in his mind, imagining it louder, right in his ear and carried on a heavy, smoky breath.  He wondered if he'd go slower with John, kiss him more, and the thought guilted him into capturing Dot's lips again. 

"Ready, love?" Paul asked, breathless.  Dot nodded, her eyelids fluttering, and Paul nearly groaned in relief. 

Sliding into her for the first time struck a chord within him that was somewhere between horror and bliss.  An animalistic instinct told him to bring her closer, push harder, and _take_ , but even as he built a steady pace, something inside him seemed to fall apart.  It felt _good_ , and that was almost the worst part.  The warm cradle of her thighs, her arms around his neck, her breath in his ear—it ran through him like electricity, making his movements harsh and uncoordinated, increasingly desperate.  But each frenzied thrust seemed to pull him toward some indefinable edge, one that he didn't want to reach, like running toward the edge of a cliff without knowing what waited at the bottom. 

Dot gasped sharply, bucking underneath him as if the current had flowed from his body into hers, making her seize up against him, and Paul thought of John.  He remembered John's smile in the soft glow of the church hall—which seemed like so very long ago—the light in his eyes and the quiet chime of his laugh.  He remembered that hot, beery breath against his face, splashing against his skin the way Dot's did now. 

Paul squeezed his eyes closed and picked up his pace, and he could almost _see_ him, the smooth, pale expanse of his skin, the way his hair drooped at the end of the day.  Paul could hear himself groaning, loud and broken.  He was thrusting into Dot near recklessly now, sweat trickling down his cheekbones. 

An ugly, wrenching burst of pain reminded him that he'd lost John.  If things had gone differently, if he hadn't had the journal, if he hadn't thought to _use_ it, John would be gone forever.  He wouldn't have been able to touch him, see his smile; he could be living right now without John in his life, and the memory of the loss shuddered through him like a sickness. 

But he'd brought John back. 

He _owned_ him. 

That was Paul's last thought before his mind went blank, finishing inside Dot with a last few frenzied thrusts.  He sank down against her, his sweaty forehead pressed against her collarbone as he caught his breath, her fingers combing tenderly through his hair.  She was saying something to him, her voice a soothing murmur, but he could barely hear her over the thrumming in his head, panic prickling in his chest.  Suddenly the warmth of her embrace was too much, stiflingly hot in a way that made his throat clench warningly.  He shoved away from her, rolling onto his side to suck in a shuddering breath, his hand sliding over his eyes. 

"Paul?"  Her voice was so sweet, so quiet.  Paul opened his mouth to reply, but all that came out was a bitter, broken sob.  "Oh, Paul—oh no." 

He felt the bed shift as she sat up, her hand hovering over his shoulder.  "Don't touch me," he croaked, and that was the end of it.  As if a dam had broken inside of him, tears began to trickle from his eyes.  He clenched his teeth, squeezing his eyes closed in an attempt to hold them back, but his body quaked uselessly, forcing out wrecked sobs. 

Beyond the static roaring in his mind, Dot's voice carried on in a worried rush.  "What happened?  Did I hurt you?  Oh no, I'm so sorry, what's wrong?" 

He shook his head, pressing his face against the sheet, which was already damp with tears.  "I feel sick," he managed, his voice cracking over the last word.  The reality of it hit him like a punch in the gut, and he swallowed thickly over the suffocating lump in his throat. 

There was no cure. 

*** 

It was mid-November when he got the call.  When his dad called him to the phone, Paul was almost too afraid to take it.  He hadn't spoken to Dot in over a week, and he knew, somehow, that it would be her.  She was finally going to confront him, tell him what an embarrassment he was, how she was going to tell _everyone_. 

"Yeah?" he asked.  He was surprised at the indifference in his voice, as if he wasn't screaming inside. 

" _Yeah,_ he says!  I'm sorry, Prime Minister, sir, is this a bad time?"  John's voice washed over him like a cool wave and Paul nearly groaned in relief, going boneless against the wall.  His heart pounded for a different reason now and he slid his eyes closed, willing himself to calm down. 

"Hey, Johnny." 

"So, listen, Stu has a thing tonight." 

Paul's eyes flew open.  "A  _thing?_ " 

"I dunno, an art exhibition.  Real fancy, like, and our Stu got a painting in.  Tonight's the opening night."    

"Good," Paul said stiffly.  "Tell him congratulations." 

"Tell him yourself.  You're coming, aren't you?"

There were at least a hundred things Paul would rather do than attend some fancy event for the sole purpose of honoring _Stuart_.  But he had been tolerable lately, Paul had to admit—he didn't hate _him_ so much as he hated Stuart's closeness with John, and giving them a night alone together was the last thing he wanted. 

"Oh—I s'pose." 

"Good lad."  Paul could hear the smile in John's voice.  "George is coming, too.  And Cyn.  You'll be bringing Dot, won't you?"

Paul hesitated.  It was likely that Dot never wanted to see him again—he hardly wanted to see her again, if only to save himself the humiliation.  He could only imagine how stupid he'd looked, breaking down and crying after _sex_. 

"Er—I dunno, we haven't exactly—"

"Bleedin' Christ, she's not still angry about the pictures, is she?" 

Paul shrugged.  It was as good of an explanation as any.  "Something like that." 

"She's worse than Cyn," John groaned, and Paul could almost imagine him rolling his eyes.  It was almost funny.  Dot had been so kind, so enduringly patient in ways Paul could never share, yet she would always look like the villain. 

He finally agreed to bring her if he could, if only to give Cynthia someone to talk to.  After they hung up, Paul stood there for a long time, hands shaking, too afraid to dial Dot's number. 

*** 

The Walker Art Gallery was a large, elegant building, with an entryway supported by towering pillars.  A rather large crowd had already gathered, slowly making their way inside, all suits and fancy dresses.  Paul felt suddenly underdressed in his drainies and leather jacket.  He smoothed his hands over the sides of his hair and made his way to the fountain, where he and the others were supposed to meet. 

He spotted John almost immediately.  He was balanced on the rounded edge of the fountain, arms out like a tightrope walker, a cigarette clamped in his grinning mouth.  As Paul got closer, he realized George was the one John was smiling at, and a tiny flicker of jealousy made him jog the rest of the way over. 

"If you fall, don't expect me to dive in and save you."

George turned around, his eyes lighting up as he swung an arm over Paul's shoulders.  "Hiya, Paul."

John leapt off the fountain, peering into the shallow water.  "Y'know, I think I could've managed on my own."  He shot Paul a grin, his cheeks ruddy from the cold.  "Glad you're here, anyroad." 

Paul felt his face flush and he looked away, grateful for the rapidly oncoming darkness.  "Where's Stu?"

"Inside, I think," George answered.

"Probably have special hors d'oeuvres for the _art-eests_."  Paul couldn't help but notice the bitterness in John's tone, and it was strangely reassuring.  He wondered if John had entered a piece for the exhibition, only to get rejected.  It wasn't something he had the nerve to ask. 

The three of them waited there until the girls arrived.  Dot had been costive with him on the phone, polite but strangely distant, so much so that he'd been surprised when she agreed to come.  She said that there'd be no need for him to pick her up, that she would make arrangements with Cynthia, and then she hung up with barely a goodbye. 

A bolt of cold nerves rushed through him every time he caught a glimpse of blonde hair through the crowd.  He tried to focus on John instead, but John set his nerves aflame in his own right.  John hadn't particularly dressed up either, with his usual hair and leather, but under his jacket was a tight, white shirt that looked clean and new.  It was slightly damp now from the spray of the fountain, clinging to his skin, and despite the chill of the oncoming winter Paul found himself flushed with heat. 

Dot and Cynthia were fashionably late.  Most of the crowd had disappeared inside by the time they showed up, and Paul was so cold and irritated that he could barely force a smile.  The smile Dot shot back at him was just as fake, tight at the corners, making her mouth look stiff and rectangular.   

They met up with Stuart inside, and Paul made a show of listening to him gush about how excited he was, how _proud_ , though the words blurred easily into the echoing roar of the gallery.  He, John, and the others followed Stuart through the crowd, all the way back into a brightly lit corner.  There, hung in a fancy frame, was some splattered mess of paint that Paul wasn't entirely sure qualified as art at all. 

It was a mess of orange, yellows, and blues, with designs in various colors that looked as if they'd been slathered on at the last minute.   _This_ was what they had come here to see?  It looked like a five-year-old's finger-painting, not a piece of artwork worthy of this sort of fanfare. 

Paul bit back a laugh and looked to John for validation, but John wouldn't meet his eyes.  His arm was wrapped tightly around Stuart's shoulders, his gaze locked on the painting, lips parted in awe.  Paul looked away from them sharply, something strange twisting in his chest. 

Dot had drifted away with Cynthia, and it was just as well, though it left no one for Paul to distract himself with.  George seemed just as enamored by the painting as John was, though he had stepped closer, reading the description that had been posted next to it.  _Summer Painting_ , it was called, and Paul rolled his eyes at the simple title.  He leaned over George's shoulder, skimming the words Stuart had written. 

It wasn't much different than what Stuart had told them when they arrived: how he'd tried to capture this _mood_ , how he poured all his deep, inner feelings into it.  It was absurd enough that Paul would have thought it was a joke if he didn't know better.  This, doubled with Stuart gazing up at John and talking weird, arty stuff—going on about brush strokes and _emotion_ —made Paul wish he hadn't come at all.  He didn't fit in here.

At the end of the description was a price, and this time, Paul couldn't keep himself from laughing.  He nudged George, pointing at the figure. 

"Sixty-five pounds!" he hissed.  "For _this_?" 

George looked at him as if he'd gone mad.  "You don't like it?  I think it's really good.  Professional, like." 

It had to be a joke, that was the only conclusion Paul could come up with.  Everyone here was just pretending to like this garbage, just so they could call themselves cultured. 

He was proven wrong a couple of months later.  He, John, and George met Stuart for coffee, and Paul was somewhat unnerved at the giant smile on Stuart's usual impassive face. 

They'd barely gotten seated when Stuart said, "I've sold it." 

"What?" Paul asked.  "Your soul?" 

" _Summer Painting!_ " John exclaimed, glowing.  He reached over, shaking Stuart's shoulder fondly.  "I told you someone would buy it, son." 

Stuart laughed, ducking his head, but Paul didn't miss the way his cheeks went pink. 

"Sixty-five pounds."  George shook his head in disbelief.  "What're you going to do with it?" 

"Oh.  Just buy some canvases and paint, I suppose." 

"Canvases and paint!" John released him, throwing his arms up as if Stuart had offended him.  "Listen, love—" Paul cringed at the soft affection in John's tone "—sixty five pounds?  That's very near the cost of a Hofner bass, you know." 

Paul's heart dropped.  The look of pale shock on Stuart's face probably mirrored his own—they hadn't seriously discussed adding anyone to the band in a long time, and now John was trying to get Stuart to buy a bass?  They needed a bass player, but they needed a drummer more.  Most importantly, they needed someone who wasn't Stuart. 

"John—" Paul started.

"I can't just spend it all." 

Paul nodded.  For once, he was happy to take Stuart's side.  "He's right, y'know.   Sixty-five pounds—that's a fortune!  He should save it, really." 

The look John gave him was shrewd, piercing, and Paul felt strangely guilty for contradicting him. 

"See reason."  John laced his fingers on top of the table, straightening himself in his chair as if he were conducting a business meeting.  "Think of it as investment.  Spend it all now, form a big ace group—fame!  All the money you could want!" 

Stuart frowned.  "I can't even _play_."

"What's it matter?" George asked, smiling wide.  If John had convinced anyone, it was him.  "It'll look good, won't it?" 

"At least one of you has a brain."  John shot Paul a challenging look.  Fighting with John was exhausting, it always was, and Stuart had been nothing but a source of conflict from the very beginning.  John's expression made it clear that he wasn't going to budge, that it was his way or all-out war, and Paul frankly didn't have it in him to make another scene.

He shrugged.  "When you're right, you're right, Johnny." 

John laughed triumphantly, smacking Paul's back, and the burst of affection that flooded Paul's chest made it all worth it.  At least Stuart was quiet, and if he joined the band, that would give Paul an excuse to keep an eye on him.  If anything, it might cut down on the time he and John spent alone. 

"See?" John pressed.  He turned his attention back to Stuart, though his hand still rested on the back of Paul's chair.  A dark, confused look flitted across Stuart's features; he almost looked hurt when he searched John's eyes. 

Paul smirked, leaning closer to John and allowing their shoulders to bump.  If Stuart had to join them, then Paul had to make it clear that John was his, and his position in John's life couldn't be usurped. 

Stuart slammed down his coffee cup hard enough to slosh some its contents onto the table.  "Fine," he said quickly.  He caught Paul's eyes, just for a second, giving him a look so venomous Paul could hardly believe he'd actually seen it.  "Fine, I'll buy the bass—whatever you want, John." 

When John's hand slid off the back of his chair, Paul felt oddly cold, oddly _used_ , and the self-satisfied smirk on John's face did nothing to comfort him. 

*** 

Perhaps the worst thing about having a journal that could change anything was not using it to change _everything_.  As the days went by, Paul found himself sitting on his bed, just holding it in his lap, staring down at a blank page until his vision blurred.  He wanted to keep Stuart from selling the painting, wanted to keep him from joining the band.  He wanted to make it so the new bass didn't look so cool in Stuart's hands.  He even wanted to go back and keep himself from sleeping with Dot, if only to give himself the stability of a relationship that wasn't built on fake smiles and awkward silences. 

Each time, something stopped him from writing.  It felt like it wasn't his place to deny Stuart the joy of selling a painting, to give himself the right to undo his mistakes without taking responsibility.  It was okay to bring someone back to life—that was a _good_ thing.  His experiment with meeting after school, that hadn't really affected anything. 

Now, though, he found he couldn't quite make himself believe it was okay to tamper with other people's choices.  He still vividly remembered the way John had forced out the words Paul had written for him, as if reciting a script, when Paul had brought him back.  John wouldn't have said those things on his own, but in that moment, he had been Paul's puppet.  It wasn't right.  It wasn't _fair_. 

So Paul put the journal away, trying to take comfort only in the fact that it existed, and that he could use it if things ever got too bad.  His current circumstances were survivable, and that was all that mattered. 

At least, that's what Paul kept telling himself when John finally accepted Stuart's invitation to move in with him. 

It shouldn't have come as a surprise.  John had been complaining more and more about Mimi's nagging, how he wished he could just live his own life.  Rationally, Paul knew it made sense.  John was twenty years old; why should he still live with his aunt?  Still, anger pulsed through Paul's veins when he'd found out, and he sat with his journal in his lap for a full hour before he finally threw it across the room to keep himself from writing. 

He couldn't take away John's freewill.  He _wouldn't_. 

All he could do was be a supportive friend, which is why he accepted John's invitation to visit when all he wanted to do was scream at him and slam down the phone. 

Paul wasn't expecting much, but he was still surprised and rather disgusted when he stepped into Stuart's flat for the first time.  Beer bottles and ashtrays littered the floor, along with various art supplies.  Propped along the walls were canvases of all sizes, some new and some smeared with paint; on a few of them, Paul recognized John's cartoony style, and the sight of it managed to bring a smile to his face.  Stuart sat in one corner, quietly drawing on a sketchpad that was propped on his knees. 

"So?" John said, spreading his arms.  He stood before Paul in the small room, smiling as if he believed it to be a grand palace.  "What do you think?"

Paul glanced at Stuart.  "Good.  It's good."  All he wanted was to talk in private—not that he had anything personal to say, but the thought of Stuart overhearing all their conversations from now on put him on edge.  "Is there somewhere we can, y'know, _talk?_ " 

"Oh."  John's eyes widened, glancing between Paul and Stuart.  "Ah—of course." 

Paul followed John into an adjoining room, careful to avoid stepping on tubes of paint.  This room was much the same as the first, though it featured a single mattress askew in the center of the floor, as if it had been put there as an afterthought. 

John closed the door behind them.  "What is it?" he asked.  He looked oddly nervous, standing stiffly against the door, as if he'd been caught doing something wrong.

"Nothing.  I just…"  Saying ' _I_ _miss being alone with you_ ' seemed like too much, so Paul only shrugged.  "I wanted to make sure we'd still be able to write in private." 

John visibly relaxed, rolling his eyes.  "He's part of the band now, Paul."  He sat down heavily on the mattress, grabbing a crushed pack of cigarettes off the floor. 

"So?  We don't write in front of George."  Paul moved to sit next to him, taking the cigarette John offered. 

John's presence next to him was a comfortable one.  The warmth radiating from him was familiar, calming, and as Paul sucked down a lungful of smoke, he felt the tension drain out of him.  A silence fell over them and Paul allowed himself to study the room a bit more, taking in the haphazardly painted walls and the stacks of John's notebooks on the desk.  His guitar rested in the corner, next to an open box of messy paint supplies.  There were piles of clothes on the floor, and while most of them appeared to be John's, Paul wouldn't have been surprised to find a few pairs of knickers mixed in. 

"I just don't want things to change," Paul confessed.

"What?  They're not going to.  You can still come over, we can still write.  Only now we don't have to worry about Mimi telling us to quiet down." 

Paul wanted to ask if he could still sleep over; if he could still sneak his arms around John's waist in the middle of the night; if they could still wake up curled together and be too tired to move apart in the morning.  He wanted to ask if they could still pull the blanket over their heads and sing, and pretend, just for that moment, that they were the only two people in the world.  He didn't ask any of those things—he could never dream of voicing them.  Instead, he pressed his knee against John's and tried to trust him. 

Nearly a week later, Paul turned up at John's with his guitar and a few hastily scribbled pages of lyrics, only for John to stop him at the door. 

"What are you doing here?" he hissed, blocking Paul's path.  His eyes were wide in a vague expression panic, his hair mussed and his shirt on backward. 

Paul lifted his guitar.  "Thought we could go over some songs."

John didn't move from his place in the doorway.  He looked warily over his shoulder, chewing on his lower lip indecisively. 

"Move," Paul said, nudging John's thigh with his guitar case.  "It's bloody freezing." 

Nodding silently, John stepped aside.  It wasn't much warmer inside, but Paul was grateful to be out of the damp wind.  He slithered out of his coat and tossed it aside.  A look around proved they were alone, though John continued to fidget impatiently, and Paul raised an eyebrow.

"All right, John?" 

That seemed to snap John out of his daze. "Why wouldn't I be?"  He indicated to the pile of pillows that served as a couch.  "Let's hear the songs, then." 

"Can't we go to your room?"  It wasn't like John's room was much more comfortable, but Paul didn't want to run the risk of Stuart getting back and interrupting them. 

John wouldn't quite look at him, staring instead at a paint stain on the floor.  "Er—Stuart's asleep." 

"So?  We'll be quiet." 

John finally looked at him, something pleading and panicked in his expression, and Paul's brain sluggishly connected the dots. 

"You share a room," he said flatly. 

It seemed his blood had turned to ice, though there was a deep, burning hatred building inside of him.  He imagined John and Stuart falling asleep with their head on the same pillow, sharing those lazy, comfortable mornings that were supposed to belong to Paul alone.

"It's just for now," John was saying, his words spilling out one after another, though Paul could hardly hear him over the roaring in his ears.  "Just until we get another mattress, y'know, it's _cold_ , and you can't expect one of us to sleep on the floor, can you?" 

It didn't matter—John could make up all the excuses he wanted, but Paul didn't care.  His hand itched with the desire to write, to undo all of this, to keep John from meeting Stuart at all.  He hadn't done anything wrong, hadn't done anything to deserve being replaced, and now all of his efforts to spend time with John were ruined.  No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, Stuart would always be the one John went home to, fell asleep next to, and the thought of it made Paul absolutely _sick_. 

Paul didn't know how he managed to get out without causing a scene, without yelling.  The tears burned in his eyes as he left, slamming the door behind him, but he refused to let them fall.  He was halfway home when he realized he'd forgotten his guitar, but that only made him walk faster.  As soon as he took Stuart out of John's life, all of this would be different. 

When he got home, he was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn't realize he wasn't alone.  He'd nearly made it to the stairs when a soft voice stopped him.

"Are you just going to ignore me, then?" 

Paul's heart went heavy in his chest.  He whirled around, anger tightening in his throat when his eyes landed on Dot, sitting primly on the couch as if she belonged there. 

"What are you doing here?" he spat. 

"Your brother let me in."  She looked up at him with red, tired eyes.  "Can we talk?  Please?" 

"This isn't a good time."  Though in theory, he may have had all the time in the world, something inside Paul still screamed at him to hurry up, to get this over with.  Panic buzzed loudly in his skull; he couldn't sit down and listen to her, couldn't have her _break up_ with him—not now. 

Dot stared down at her hands, which were clasped tightly against her knees.  He belatedly noticed that he could actually _see_ her knees, sticking out from beneath her tight leather skirt.  On top, she'd thrown on one of her sweaters, her one barrier against the cold.  The overall look should have been a disaster, but in that moment, it was strangely endearing. 

"It won't take long," she said, quiet, and it was enough to give Paul pause.  He reminded himself once more that this could be changed too, if necessary.  With that in mind, he let out a pointed sigh and reluctantly sat down beside her. 

"Hurry up, then.  What is it?"

He was staring at a spot on the wall, focusing on his breathing.  His chest felt like it was gaping open, his mind raw and over stimulated.  Too many things were happening all at once and he hadn't had a chance to think about any of it.  He couldn't meet Dot's eyes, knowing he was about to lose her, too. 

"I still care about you, Paul." 

When her fingers slowly encircled his wrist, her thumb smoothing over his racing pulse point with such tenderness, Paul blinked up at her in surprise.  " _What?_ " 

She smiled.  "I know it's silly.  I know maybe I'm sick for it, too."  She looked away from him, biting at her lower lip, her brows furrowed.  "What happened between us, that night—I felt awful, like a villain, you know?  I thought it would fix you for good, I thought if I finally just gave in and let you have what you wanted…"  She trailed off, shaking her head.  "It just hurt us both.  You didn't get to have… get to have… a _boy_.  And I didn't get to have my first time with someone who loved me."  She broke off in a sad sort of laugh, a few stray tears falling from her eyes. 

Paul's chest went tight, heavy, as if his heart had been replaced with a cold block of iron.  He was gravitating closer before he could stop himself, kissing her head, wiping away her tears with his free hand.  "No, Dot, _no_ , I love you.  I do, I really do.  Just… just not in the right way, I s'pose."  Admitting that came as a strange relief, even as Dot squeezed her eyes closed in silent agony. 

He wrapped his arms around her trembling shoulders, hugging her against his chest.  She was never meant to get hurt, never meant to find out any of this.  There was never supposed to be anything for her to _find out_ , but it seemed that some things, even with the journal, were beyond his control. 

"What do we do?" he whispered against her hair.

"You were a good boyfriend, Paul.  When it was just us, we had a good time together, like a real couple."  She pulled away just enough to offer him a damp smile.  "But it was never real, was it?" 

Paul shook his head, closing his eyes against the tears that burned behind them.  There was no point in lying to her anymore.  "I'm so sorry." 

"I was stupid to think I could cure you."  She smoothed a hand over his hair, achingly gentle.  "Whatever is wrong with you, whatever is making you this way—it's not something I can fix.  I don't know if it's something that _can_ be fixed." 

Paul's heart dropped.  "What are you saying?" 

"Keeping this going will just hurt both of us.  I'm not what you want, I can never be what you want."  She wiped at her eyes, her lips trembling.  "I don't think we should see each other anymore." 

It didn't hurt as bad as he thought it would.  Paul sat there for a moment, frozen, waiting for the pain to come, but all he felt was a strange relief.  She could live her own life, she could be _happy_ , without him dragging her down. 

He nodded silently, hugging her tight one last time.  "You'll find someone better.  Someone who loves you like you deserve."    

Lips pressed against his cheek, his temple.  She nuzzled against his hair and whispered, "You will, too.  The second John realizes what a fool he is."

***

Locked away in his room, journal in his lap, a small surge of guilt made Paul hesitate.  His anger had dampened into something hollow and lonely, leaving him exhausted in the aftermath. 

Did he really want to do this?  Did he really want to isolate John from his other friends? 

A dark, quiet voice inside him answered with an immediate _yes_ , but Paul knew that wasn't true.  What he really wanted was an opportunity to spend some time alone with John, for them to reconnect and have fun away from Stuart, away from _everyone_.  Maybe then John would come around, rediscover whatever it was inside him that made him kiss Paul in the first place. 

If he just had a week alone with John, that would be enough.  The kiss had been so long ago now; it was possible, Paul realized, that it had only been a passing moment of curiosity.  He just had to know for sure.   

Paul sucked in a deep breath, the cool air rattling in his lungs, and then, slowly, he began to write. 

*** 

The first touches of spring were making themselves evident in Liverpool.  Even the sky seemed bluer, Paul thought, or maybe it was just the barely contained excitement that trembled inside him.  John had turned up bright and early, guitar in one hand and a bag slung over his shoulder, glasses on and hair greased to perfection. 

"Ready?" John asked, smiling wide.  Even in the dead of winter, that smile could have warmed Paul—it was one of his old smiles, before their world had gotten so crowded. 

The past couple of months had been nearly insufferable, with Stuart showing up to their practices and plucking stupidly at his bass.  Paul would have to stand there and watch as he and John left together, and each time, it was like twisting a knife in his heart.  His only shred of hope had come as a phone call from his cousin Betty—though Paul had planned the call himself, it was still such a relief to hear Betty's excitement when he told her he was in a band.  She offered him a performance opportunity at her and her husband's pub, just as he'd written, though hadn't anticipated waiting until April for it. 

Still, John's excitement made it worth the wait.  Paul had lied a little, told him that Betty didn't have room to house the whole band, but John didn't seem to mind.  They were only going to perform on the weekend, but they'd decided to stay the full week leading up to it. 

"Ready," Paul replied.  He had his guitar and his bag waiting by the door, and he scooped them up and followed John down the road so they could hitch their first ride. 

They only made it as far as Stafford before they stopped for lunch, which they decided to eat in the park.  John got his guitar out halfway through, strumming languidly as they talked.  Every now and then he'd open his mouth for Paul to slide a chip between his lips, and it was like the past few months had never happened.  They were still the same, John and Paul, and no one could ever get between them. 

When Paul was finished eating, he got out his guitar and joined him.  It was as unplanned and easy as their first session together in the church hall, a free, relaxed feeling to it that Paul thought had been lost forever.  If Paul closed his eyes, he could imagine he was back there, rediscovering John all over again.  The music was more intricate now, laden with the chords they'd learned together.  The songs flowing from John carried the heavy weight of sadness now, and Paul's heart ached for him; he tried to reply with something soft, understanding, which carried into an optimistic little tune that made John laugh. 

"I missed this," John said as they packed up their guitars.

Paul bit back the urge to say ' _I missed_ you', and instead replied, "Yeah.  Me too." 

It was early evening when they reached Caversham, and though they'd promised Betty they'd help out in the pub, she gave them the night off to rest up.  Her husband, Mike, showed them to the room they'd be sharing, which it seemed they mostly used for storage—the floor was a maze of boxes, overloaded coat racks, and shelves crammed with books and knickknacks.  In the corner was a single bed that had been fixed up for them, one pillow at each end, and Paul was almost embarrassed by how relieved he was. 

"Dinner will be ready soon," Mike told them.  "Change, wash up—do whatever you need to."  And then he was gone, closing the door behind him. 

John set his bag and his guitar on the floor at the foot of the bed and snatched up the pillow.  "We'll be getting rid of this, first of all," he said, tossing it aside.  After that, Paul forgot about Stuart entirely, every doubt he'd had about his and John's friendship melting away as the pillow landed somewhere amidst the mess. 

***

By Friday, Paul's nerves made his hands slippery as he dried a glass, nearly dropping it three times before John came to his rescue.  He didn't think it was the impending performances getting to him—the thought of performing alone with John sent a thrill exploding through his chest—but it was the only answer he had when John asked him if he was all right. 

"Nervous?" John repeated, laughing as he put away the glass he'd rescued.  "What for?  It's only me." 

Paul rewetted his washcloth and distracted himself with wiping down the bar.  He scrubbed for a moment at a particularly sticky spot, frowning.  "Dunno," he admitted.  "Guess it got here faster than I expected." 

As soon as the words left his mouth, Paul knew that was the problem.  The week was almost over, which meant they'd soon be returning to their lives in Liverpool—John would be returning to _Stuart_.  It seemed as though a week alone together would make everything better, and it had.  Every morning they woke up tangled together, sleepy and smiling, whispering to each other with the sort of honesty that only comes in the early hours of the morning.  It was everything Paul wanted, everything he had been missing.  They joked and messed around the way they always had, before John's attention had been divided.

But what if he lost John again the second they went home?  That would hurt even worse. 

Paul was still scrubbing intently when John's hand landed over his own.  "I think you got it," John said, his hot breath gusting against the back of Paul's ear.  Paul tensed, his hand going still under John's.  A million thoughts screamed in Paul's mind, that the touch didn't mean anything, that Betty and Mike could walk in at any second, but none of it seemed to matter. 

He straightened, turning to face John fully, their chests nearly touching.  It felt like all week had been leading up to this, and Paul wouldn't let himself miss his chance—not again.

Slowly, carefully, his hand slid around the back of John's neck, his thumb smoothing down the short hairs there.  John only stared at him, breathing shallowly, and Paul wished he knew what he was thinking. 

"Paul?"

"Hm?"

 John dampened his lips, his gaze cutting to the side.  "Do you remember—remember the night after we made our record?" 

Heat exploded under Paul's skin.  His fingers twitched against John's neck, pulling him subtly closer.  "Yeah?"    

"I never—I guess I didn't apologize, you know, for _that_."  Paul's heart sank.  John continued to stare at the floor, brows drawn in tight, eyes glassy.  "I never meant to, y'know, _accuse_ you—I didn't think, I _wasn't_ thinking.  But of course you're not, right?  You're not." 

There was nothing Paul could say.  His mouth hung open in quiet horror, his eyes burning.  It felt as if John had reached inside him and grabbed all the hope that had dared to bloom there, ripping it out and tearing to shreds. 

A sudden anger flashed through him and he yanked John closer, slamming his lips against John's and cracking their teeth together.  It was nothing like the achingly soft kiss they'd shared in the bathroom that night at Julia's.  Paul's mouth was filled with a thick, bitter taste of copper, his hands holding John's face roughly as John clutched the front of Paul's shirt in his fists. 

Paul bit at John's mouth, sucking a lip between his teeth as he shoved John back against the wall, glasses rattling perilously in the cupboards beside them.  John seemed to be pushing him away and pulling him closer all at once, an angry hand yanking Paul's hair and forcing him to tilt his head, their faces crushed together. 

Then John did shove him away, a solid push to his chest that made Paul stumble.  Paul surged back against him, John's shoulders slamming against the wall with a loud thud.  This time a glass slipped free from its home, popping against the floor and spraying shards against their jeans, their boots, but Paul didn't care.  His lips sought John's once more, driven by a desperate sort of fury.  This was everything he had been fantasizing about for so long, but it wasn't enough, _wasn't enough_.  John's tight lips kept him locked out.  Even though he held onto Paul just as tightly, getting close to him felt like clawing against solid brick. 

A small sound caught Paul's attention, the softest whimper.  John's chest hitched and Paul pulled away, holding John's face in his hands, searching his eyes. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" John hissed, his eyes burning with an anger, a hatred, Paul had never seen before.  A few years ago, Paul would have backed off in an instant.  Maybe even now, Paul would have fallen for the mask if John's voice hadn't wavered and cracked with despair. 

"I was wrong."  Paul stroked John's cheekbones with his thumbs, kissed his forehead, and he felt John crumple against him.  "I lied.  I lied to you, and I lied to myself, but— _God_ , Johnny, I want you." 

John groaned, squeezing his eyes shut.  His eyelashes were damp, Paul noticed, and his heart twisted.  "John…"

John kissed him once, twice—soft, messy presses of lips, his tongue darting out to trace the corner of Paul's mouth.  "Bleedin' Christ, I fucked you up.  I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

Paul slid his mouth over John's to silence him, and though this was slower, more gentle, John remained rigid, a million miles away.    

"Please," Paul murmured against his lips.   "Let me in, baby, please." 

John was already shaking his head, pushing Paul back once more.  "It's too late."  That must have been a joke, somehow, because John let out a laugh that was tinged with high-pitched hysteria.  "It's too fuckin' late, Jesus Christ." 

"Why?"  Paul kept holding on, even as John slid away from the wall, twisting to free himself from Paul's grasp.  "We have all night—we have the rest of the weekend to ourselves."  John only waved him off, pushing himself up and over the bar and heading toward the door.  The pub wasn't nearly clean yet, and Betty and Mike would never let them perform if they left it like this. 

"John!"

John didn't look back, and the door closed loudly behind him.  For a long moment, Paul only stood there in the empty pub, staring at the door, palm pressed against his lips as if to hold onto John's warmth. 

When Paul got back to their room after he'd cleaned up the pub, John was already in bed, back turned toward the door.  His breaths were too shallow, too measured for him to be asleep.  Still, he didn't move as Paul approached, and though Paul had spent the past hour thinking of things to say, maybe it was better like this. 

He changed clothes quietly and slid into the spot John had left for him, and it struck him how fortunate he was that John hadn't decided to spread out and leave Paul to sleep on the floor.  He longed to shift closer, to tuck his knees behind John's and hold him, but he didn't dare press his luck.  Turning his back to John, Paul stared at the blackened shapes of the furniture looming around him in the darkness, and he knew sleep wouldn't come. 

*** 

They performed on Saturday and Sunday, opening with 'The World Is Waiting for the Sunrise', as Mike had suggested.  John didn't act any differently, though Paul hadn't really expected him to—this was just another mistake, another thing to be pushed aside and never spoken of.  Bitter disappointment caused his fingers to slip, his chords sloppy and his strumming uneven, but the small crowd applauded dutifully as if nothing was amiss. 

Then it was over, and they hitched their way back to Liverpool.  It rained heavily the whole way, pelting down on the car in a soothing roar.  Paul dozed with his forehead pressed against the window, the cool glass strangely pleasant against his skin.  He was only awoken twice, when he felt someone pressing up against him, a head tucked against his shoulder.  Both times, Paul gently angled away from John, nudging him back into his own seat. 

Their week alone together was over and nothing had changed; John would never be his.  The touching, the cuddling, _everything_ —it had to stop.  John couldn't turn him down and expect to carry on the quiet, pseudo-relationship they'd had before.  It hurt as though Paul was shoving a knife into his own chest, but it was for the best. 

Maybe one day they could be normal friends, if only Paul could remember what normal friends acted like. 

If only Paul could forget how to love him. 

Paul had barely been home an hour when the phone rang, and though he'd been determined to ignore it, his brother yelled up the stairs that it was for him.  A tiny burst of hope made him get out of bed and hurry downstairs—it had to be John, who else could it be?  Maybe he'd changed his mind.  Maybe it wasn't too late after all. 

When he answered, however, George's voice greeted him. 

"I was beginning to think you were never coming back.  I've been calling all week!" 

"I'm here now," Paul said tersely.  "What d'you want?" 

If George noticed the disappointment in Paul's tone, he didn't comment on it.  "This big London agent is coming to town next month," he said in a rush.  "Looking for backing groups for a few of his new singers, sounds like.  I've been helping Stu with chords all week, but we should—"

" _Stu?_ " Paul cut in.  "Are you going to move in with him now, too?"

"I stayed over a few times while you were gone," George admitted hesitantly, confusion lacing his voice.  "That's all right, isn't it?"

No, it really wasn't, because Paul had already lost one friend to Stuart, and he wasn't keen on losing another. 

"We were just practicing anyroad," George went on.  "Figured you and John would want to audition." 

If Paul could ignore the part of himself that was exhausted, _angry_ , auditioning in front of a real, big-time agent seemed like a dream come true.  He should be excited about it, though his brain seemed incapable of doing anything but asking itself the same questions over and over: _Why_ was it too late?  If he'd kissed John back when he'd had the chance, could things have been different?  Was it worth going back that far to find out? 

"Paul?"

"Yeah," Paul said quickly.  "Sounds—sounds good.  I'll talk to John." 

John, of course, fell in love with the idea.  They only had two full weeks to practice, and John demanded they use every second of it.  It was just the four of them, without a drummer and accompanied by Stuart's mediocre bass playing.  They'd probably sound better without a bass at all, though Paul knew better than to bring that up with John. 

"Just turn around, would you?" Paul snapped one evening.  It was enraging, seeing Stuart's fingers skitter along the frets like a confused spider, and Paul had reached a point where he wanted to yank the bass from Stuart's hands and beat him over the head with it.  "At least that way no one can _see_ you cocking it up." 

Paul cast a worried look at John, waiting for the rage, but John only nodded.  "Yeah, turn to the side, do an Elvis pose." 

It was a look that strangely _worked_ , and for the first time since they started practicing, Paul began to feel like maybe they had a chance.  The band was solid, if no one happened to notice how bad Stuart was.  

The audition was all John talked about in the days leading up to it, and Paul found himself swept away by his excitement.  John was right—this was their chance.  They could finally do something with their music, maybe make a little money, get their names out into the world.  Maybe they'd even be the new popular band in Liverpool, selling out shows at the Cavern. 

"We're meant for this, Paul, I'm telling you," John confided the night before the audition.  They'd just wrapped up their last practice, and Paul joined John on the roof of his and Stuart's flat, their legs swinging carelessly over the edge.  John was gazing up into the night, smoking, seemingly unaware of the gap Paul had left between them.

It felt somewhat wrong for his side to not be warmed against John's, but the more Paul left him alone, the friendlier John seemed.  This was the way it was meant to be. 

"I could never do anything else," John went on quietly, slowly kicking his legs.  "I can't think about it—getting a job working on the docks?  Some factory somewhere?  No."  He shook his head, tossing the remains of his cigarette over the side before lighting up another.  "I'd kill myself, you know." 

Paul waited for the laugh, but it never came.  John's expression had grown strangely serious, dark, and a prickle of worry worked its way into Paul's mind.  He shifted uncomfortably. 

"We'll make it," he said.  "We'll back Billy Fury and go on tour.  We'll be rich when we get back."  Saying it aloud didn't make it feel any more real, but Paul realized he couldn't imagine failure either.  Success seemed impossible, but what was the alternative?  They _had_ to make it.  He couldn't be happy with anything else. 

Breaching the space between them, Paul clasped John's shoulder.  "We'll make it," he said again.  "I'll make sure of it." 

*** 

They didn't make it. 

It was tempting to place the blame entirely on Stuart, but even Paul could admit that it wouldn't be fair.  They were almost turned away at the door for not having a drummer, though John had managed to twist together a tale about how theirs didn't show.  A drummer from another band sat in for them, and that was the end of it. 

Whether or not the drummer had botched it on purpose to give his band less competition, Paul didn't know, but it didn't matter—The Silver Beetles, as The Quarrymen were now known, were thanked for their attempt and asked kindly to leave. 

John shoved his way out of the Wyvern Social Club before Paul had a chance to pack up his guitar; he'd hardly realized John had left until he glanced up in time to see John disappear out the doors.  Paul left his guitar behind, trusting George to grab it for him, and took off after John.  The words from last night still rang in Paul's mind— _"I'd kill myself, you know,"_ —and there was something in John's blank, defeated expression that pushed Paul forward, faster and faster, nearly tripping over the scattered instruments and musicians sitting or napping on the floor, waiting for their turn to audition. 

He stepped on someone—their hair, probably, or the edge of their jacket—and earned a wild flurry of curses, but Paul could barely hear them.  He threw himself against the doors, which flew open and cracked loudly against the brick siding, and he spotted John just across the street, arm folded against a wall, forehead pressed into the crook of his elbow.  Paul rushed over to him.

"John?" He laid a hand on John's back, and John's shoulders tensed. 

"Fuck off," he said tiredly, shrugging away from Paul's hand.  He sounded empty, defeated, and that alone hurt worse than seeing him on a hurt, angry rampage.  All the fight had drained out of him, and it looked as though he might collapse without the wall there to support him. 

"John," Paul tried again.  He took John's shoulder, gently pushing at it in an attempt to see John's face.  "It's not over, love.  There'll be other auditions, other chances—"

John shook his head.  "You don't get it.  It's over.  We haven't got a gig in months, we hardly remembered how to play together." He turned, resting the side of his head against the brick as he faced Paul.  "We're no good, Paul.  Maybe it's time to move on." 

"You don't mean that."  Paul wanted nothing more than to grab him and shake him, to dislodge that blank expression from his face, to see him come alive again.  "This is your dream.  You can't give up on it over one botched audition." 

John wouldn't meet his eyes, staring blankly at the ground between them.  "What do you care?  You never wanted to do this anyway.  Just fuck off and forget about it." 

"But I can't forget about _you_." The words came out before Paul had a chance to think about them, and John finally glanced up at him, holding his gaze.  There was pain in John's expression, something that went deeper than mere disappointment; it made him look strangely older, filled with too many regrets for his age. 

"It's not like we have anything in common outside of music anyway." 

It was that, perhaps, that confirmed what Paul knew all along—he had to fix this.  He had to keep his promise.  They were going to make it, one way or another.    

> _10 May 1960_
> 
> _Larry Parnes, the big London agent, came to town, auditioning.  He had some new singers and was looking for backing groups, and someone had told him there were a few groups around in Liverpool.  Johnny Hutchinson, the drummer with Cass and the Cassanovas, sat in with us.  He was great, the best drummer there, and he did a good job for us.  Stuart took our advice to turn to the side, hiding his mistakes, and we passed that audition to go on tour._

It was hard to act surprised when the call came a week later, but the genuine, childlike excitement in John's voice was contagious. 

 "We did it, Paul, we're going to Scotland!" 

 Paul knew they would, of course he knew, but he cradled the phone against his shoulder and wiped at his eyes, smiling so hard his face hurt. 

>   _Now we were truly professional, we could do something we had been toying with for a long time, which was to change our names to real showbiz names. I became Paul Ramon, which I thought was suitably exotic. Stuart became Stuart de Staël after the painter. George became Carl Harrison after Carl Perkins. John was Long John._
> 
> _So here we were, suddenly with the first of Larry’s untempestuous acts and a tour of Scotland, when I should be doing my GCE exams._

Paul left the journal at home to keep himself from using it, but when they opened the first night to a nearly empty performance hall, the first traces of regret began to seep in. 

Maybe this was just what showbiz was like, he tried to rationalize—working hard for not very much, losing it all on lodging and travel.  They sounded horrible and looked even worse, and the only thing Paul looked forward to were the cramped nights in the van, if only for the warmth, the comfort, of being sandwiched between John and George. 

The light, however, never left John's eyes, and that made every second worth it. 

*** 

Things were different in Hamburg. 

They'd been offered the gig not long after their return to Liverpool.  Paul and John had barely had to exchange a glance before deciding it was the opportunity of a lifetime.  To Paul, it seemed like fate, even without the guiding hand of the journal—they'd just auditioned Pete Best, Mona's son from the Casbah Club, and took him on as their new drummer, which had them fully prepared as the five piece needed for the job. 

But their first night huddled together on the Indra Club's stage, playing stiffly in front of the small crowd of prostitutes and their clients, Paul began to wonder if this was such a good idea after all.  Maybe it was just the darkness of the room or the smoke hanging heavily in the air, but when he glanced at John, his eyes were distant and afraid.

"At least we have a gig," Paul said, once they were safe in their room—if "safe" could ever an appropriate word to describe their filthy little room behind the cinema screen at the Bambi Kino.  "At least we'll be getting paid." 

They'd never received their wages for their time in Scotland, though this time they'd been assured, again and again, that they'd be paid every Thursday.  Paul would see to it that it happened, even if it meant using the journal, which he'd stuck in his bag at the last minute. 

John waved him off, the hunted look he'd had on stage long gone.  He was dabbing at his face with a towel that he'd dampened in the bathroom that was close enough to smell, the damp, heavy scent saturating their entire room.  When they'd first entered their room Paul had had to put his shirt over his nose to keep from gagging, but he'd long since given up and adjusted to it. 

"This is what we wanted," John reminded him.  "Don't go looking for the bright side as if this isn't what we'd dreamed of." 

As if to punctuate the statement, a toilet flushed loudly, gurgling through the pipes. 

"I dunno, I pictured something a little nicer," George said.  He took a seat on one of the bottom bunks.  "At least we have our own beds this time.  Well, sort of."

There were only two sets of bunk beds, four mattresses total.  Paul had carefully remained standing, as had John and Stuart.  Pete had been the only one to rush in and claim a space, crawling onto the top bunk in the corner farthest from the bathroom, above the bed on which George now sat.  There seemed to be an unspoken realization that two of them would have to share, though no one had seemed willing to broach the topic.

George spread out a little more, his hands on either side of him, as if silently claiming his spot. 

It was silly, Paul knew, to stand around and hope he got to share one of these tiny beds with John.  They were going to be here for a long time; he'd probably be happier with a mattress to himself.

"I wouldn't mind sharing."  Stuart.  Paul's gut lurched.  "I'm used to it anyway.  We've only one mattress back at home." 

John grinned at him, swinging an arm around Stuart's shoulders.  "You wouldn't know how to sleep without me, would you, you bloody queer." 

The two of them clambered into the bottom bunk as comfortably as a pair of old lovers.  Dejected, Paul climbed onto his new bed above them, and listened to the whispering and the giggling that carried long into the night. 

*** 

Saturdays were to be the band's long days, a full six hour set stretching until three o'clock in the morning.  Not that Paul could imagine there would be much of a crowd left by the end—there was hardly a crowd now, a mere hour into it, and they left the club in a small yet steady drizzle every time Bruno made the band turn down their amplifiers. 

Paul tightened his grip on his guitar.  His hands were shaking with fatigue, his fingers clumsy and aching.  They'd barely been in Hamburg a week, and a deep, dark exhaustion like Paul had never felt before seemed to grab at him like claws from somewhere beneath the floor.  His gaze drifted downward, focusing blearily on the dirty stage, and all he could think about was how nice it would be to lie down there and never move again. 

He hadn't expected it to be this hard.  Somewhere in the back of his mind, his father's voice reminded him, ' _it's work, it's supposed to be hard_ ', but even that couldn't make Paul's sluggish fingers pick up their pace.

A loud, wild laugh snapped Paul out of his daze.  His head jerked up, the way it used to when he'd fight falling asleep at his desk in school, and his eyes focused on John and Stuart.  They leaned against each other drunkenly, Stuart's head on John's shoulder as John tried to sing, his voice raw and broken, each word scraping out like shards of glass.  Stuart's fingers fumbled dumbly at the bass, making up chords and plucking the wrong strings. 

Those fingers—Paul could vividly remember them brushing the charcoal from John's face on the day Paul met him.  He could still envision the way Stuart cradled John's face in his hands, more tenderly than John ever should have allowed, thumbs stroking the dust from John's temples as if he was made of glass. 

The memory alone ignited a burst of hatred in Paul's chest. 

It had only gotten worse after that—the touching, the whispering—as ever so slowly, Stuart took Paul's place.  After a while came the looks.  Paul couldn't remember when they'd started, but Stuart wore one now; he gazed at John so fondly, a small smile pulling at his lips.  Even beneath his shades, Paul could sense the glimmering light of adoration in Stuart's eyes. 

The song ended and Paul was shuffled back to the piano.  He'd be grateful, ordinarily, for the opportunity to sit, but the new arrangement meant he couldn't see John at all.  He could barely see the audience.  All he saw when he looked up was Stuart's stupid face, his body turned from the crowd, nearly facing Paul entirely. 

Paul could see the confused scramble of fingers up close now, each missed chord and buzzing string grating on Paul's nerves like nails on a chalkboard. 

"God, that's awful."  He hadn't quite meant to say it out loud, but the slight tilt of Stuart's head was enough to let Paul know that he had been heard.  There was something strangely satisfying about that. 

"Can't do a single thing right, can you?" 

Stuart's fingers on the frets started moving a little slower, his hand stiff, and Paul thought maybe he was trying to concentrate, but the overall effect just sounded worse.  Paul laughed, loud and mean, finishing off a piano riff with an exaggerated flourish.  "I could do this in my fucking sleep." 

If Stuart's face was any indication, he'd already stopped paying attention.  His body, however, was starting to slowly angle away from Paul, as if to turn his back on him.

"That's it," Paul jeered.  "Turn around.  Show everyone you don't know what the hell you're doing." 

Stuart froze, his lips thinning into a tense line.  They were stuck in this arrangement for the rest of the set, Stuart had to know that just as well as Paul, and the best part was that there was nothing Stuart could do to stop him.  Drunk off fatigue and the strange sense of power, insults now spilled from Paul one after the next, each one growing a little louder, a little meaner, until color starting burning on Stuart's cheeks. 

"You know you're only in the band because John feels sorry for you, right?"  Stuart jerked at the mention of John's name, and a dark possessiveness roared in Paul's chest, clenching in his throat.  "It's not like you have any talent, this is a fucking charity case." 

Stuart's jaw clenched.  Paul couldn't have stopped himself even if he'd wanted to; the consequences didn't matter, for now, Paul was in complete control and Stuart had no choice but to listen to every word.

"Don't feel too special.  He's attracted to talent, after all.  He'll never like you as much as he likes me."   

He wasn't quite aware of Stuart coming at him until he realized he was falling, pain clashing across his cheekbone as he toppled to the floor.  The piano stool came down with him, tangled with his legs, and on impulse Paul kicked it up and away, watching with a dark glee as it tumbled into Stuart and knocked his feet out from under him. 

Rather than putting a stop to it, rage burned in Stuart's eyes—visible now that his sunglasses had fallen from his face.  He launched at Paul with the fury of a rabid dog, pinning him to the stage, fists slamming into Paul's face. 

"What's your fuckin' _problem_?" Stuart hissed.  Instead of answering, Paul shoved his knee against Stuart's stomach and freed himself, whirling around and letting his knuckles crash into Stuart's cheek.  Somewhere beneath the ringing in his ears, Paul could hear the music still going, punctuated by shouts and drunken cheers from the crowd.

John would be fucking pissed at them for ruining the show, and Paul made a halfhearted effort to scramble to his feet and resume playing.  Stuart stopped him before he could get off the floor, grabbing Paul's shirt and yanking him back.  Paul's hands shot out for balance, slapping a short, discordant blare from the piano as he fell. 

His head cracked against the stage and Paul cried out, trying to focus on the ceiling and regain his bearings.  Stuart, however, was on top of him again in an instant, and a flood of panic washed over Paul as he fought against Stuart's fists in an attempt to protect his face.  He was in over his head; he didn't like to fight; if he could go back right now he'd stop himself from saying anything at all.  It seemed this would go on forever, and now he was the one powerless to stop it, and that thought sent fear racing through his veins. 

But this was _Stuart_ , the scrawny, nerdy artist who had no business hanging around with someone like _John_ , much less being in a rock 'n' roll band.  He shouldn't be any competition for Paul, yet every day he pulled John farther and farther away from him. 

" _Get off me!_ "Paul snarled, shoving Stuart's chest with a burst of strength that sent him falling to the side.  Paul rolled on top of him, one hand grasping his face to keep it still, fingertips digging hard into the flesh of Stuart's cheeks, while his free hand slammed down over and over, beating against his nose, his mouth, his forehead. 

He reared back to land one final blow when someone grabbed his fist, yanking him back and away from Stuart, who was pushing himself up and lunging at him.  

"What the fuck are you doing?"  John grabbed onto Stuart before he made it to Paul, pulling him back.  Pete kept a firm hold on Paul's fist, his other hand tangled in the back of Paul's shirt, keeping him in place. 

Blood was pouring from Stuart's swollen nose, and more welled up from a split in his lip.  His mouth hung open as he gasped for air; the insides of his lips were stained bright red, collecting in the lines between his teeth. 

Distantly, Paul heard George addressing the crowd, telling them that the show was over, but the only thing that made sense was the anger in John's eyes. 

An anger that seemed to be directed at Paul alone. 

"He was ruining the fucking gig—"

"Shut the fuck up!" Stuart snarled, lunging once more against John's hold.  "You were the one lobbing insults at me, you jealous fucking _cunt_ —"

"Enough."  That was John, his voice low, dangerous.  "Get off the bloody stage.  You're an embarrassment, both you." 

Pete yanked Paul's shirt, as if he was going to lead him off the stage like a prisoner, and Paul struggled out of his grasp.  "I can fucking walk." 

There was a small, closet-like bathroom backstage, where Paul locked himself away to assess the damage.  It didn't feel like it, thanks to the adrenaline still coursing through him, but he'd taken a beating just as bad as Stuart had.  Even in the dim, flickering light, Paul could see the beginnings of a black eye beginning to form, with blood clotting in his eyebrow above it.  His nose was swollen and splotchy, blood smeared around both nostrils and caked at the corner of his lips. 

The faucet screeched in protest as Paul turned it on, dampening a paper towel to clean the blood from his face.  He had to apologize to John, that was the priority, but he had to give John a chance to cool down first.  Though their audience might have enjoyed the fight, and it was unlikely that they'd get kicked out of the club for it, Paul had been able to sense a disappointment from John that filled him with regret.  It wasn't too late to go back and stop the fight from happening—the journal was hidden safely away back in their room, if needed, but he had to talk to John first. 

Cleaning the cut on his eyebrow, Paul wondered if John was mad about the gig at all.  Maybe he was sick of dealing with them fighting all the time.  They'd gotten worse since they'd been in Hamburg, and their close living quarters hadn't helped much.  He and Stuart were always going at each other verbally, and Paul could understand how old that would get. 

He needed to apologize, promise to stop causing problems, so the rest of their stay in Hamburg could be as pleasant as possible.  Stuart was easy enough to ignore, as long as he wasn't following John around like a shadow.  Which he usually was, but still—Paul had to be the bigger person, if only to appease John.   

George was waiting for him outside the bathroom, arms folded across his chest.  "What was that about?"

Paul shrugged one shoulder.  "He just pisses me off, I dunno." 

George stared at him for a moment longer before a small smile curled onto his lips.  "I've never seen you like that, that was really something."  He reached over, clapping Paul's arm.  "At least you got a few hits in." 

As tempting as it was to rehash the fight with George, and let him know that he got way more than ' _a few_ ' hits in, he had to set things right.  "Look, I need to talk to John."  The smile dropped from George's face.  "Do you know where he is?" 

"I think he was putting up the amps, but listen, I wouldn't bother him—"

Paul turned and started down a narrow hallway before George could finish.  They had been assigned a small storage room backstage, in which they were allowed to keep anything too troublesome to move back and forth.  Mostly, it was just the amps and Pete's drum kit, since the others didn't want to risk being separated from their guitars, though Stuart did keep his bass back there on occasion. 

Which is why it didn't surprise Paul to open the door and see him sitting on one of the amps.  It was the sight of John, however, kneeling before Stuart and holding his face in his hands that made Paul's heart stop.  Their lips were pressed firmly together, and though they jerked apart the second the door clicked opened, it was enough. 

It was the final piece of a puzzle Paul had never realized he was working on, and suddenly he could clearly see the picture it made.  Everything came flooding back to him, everything he had been too stupid to see—the bites on John's neck, the single mattress in their flat—how John had been curious for a long time, and first he'd asked Pete Shotton was queer, then moved onto Paul, and now finally Stuart, the first one to reciprocate John's feelings instead of pushing him away.  Each memory stabbed at Paul's chest like an icy dagger, and he thought he might pass out, vomit, or both.  This was why John had been so distant with him, this was why it was _'too late'_ , as John had claimed back in Caversham.     

"What the fuck are you doing in here?" John snarled, shoving himself to his feet in front of Stuart, as if to actually defend him. 

Paul didn't plan on replying.  Every part of him wanted to run away and pretend none of this happened, but something kept him rooted in place, his fists trembling at his sides.  "So this is it, then?  You picked this talentless cunt over me?" 

"You're going to want to leave him alone," John said slowly.  "If you want to stay in the band." 

It was so absurd Paul couldn't help but laugh.  "If I want to stay in the band?  I'm the reason there _is_ a band.  You think you could get anywhere without me?  You think you could get somewhere with _him?_ " 

"Maybe it's not about getting somewhere!" Stuart cut in.  "You ever think about that?"

"Oh, it's about love, is it?  Your stupid fucking queer love?  You're not special, Stuart, he comes onto every boy unfortunate enough to get close to him." 

John's face went pink, eyes glassy, and Paul wished he could take the words back because John didn't deserve it.  But it was true, wasn't it?  Stuart wasn't special, and neither was Paul.  They were all just toys that held John's attention for a while, only to be abandoned with something better came along.   

John grabbed Paul's arm, hard, and yanked him out into the hallway, letting the door fall shut behind them. 

"Is that really what you think?" John hissed, shoving Paul against the opposite wall.  "Every bloke who comes along, you think I just—?" 

John pulled back and Paul squeezed his eyes closed, waiting for the punch that never came.  When he peeked an eye open, John was glaring at the floor, raking his hands through his hair. 

" _You_ rejected _me_ ," John reminded him, blinking rapidly as if to hold back tears.  "Don't you fucking dare act like it was the other way around."

"When we stayed in Caversham, I—"

"It was too late!" John's face was an angry red, splotched around his temples, his entire body shaking.  "You told me, you told me that night, when I was stupid enough to kiss you, that you weren't fucking queer.  I tried to move on, Paul!  It's not my fault if you changed your mind."

"But you liked me?" Paul pressed.  He had to hear it at least once, as if that would somehow stop the pain that threatened to swallow him whole.

"Bleedin' Christ— _yes_ , I fucking liked you, wasn't it obvious?" 

"And if I had—if I'd kissed you back, then..?"

John sighed, wiping at his eyes with the back of his wrist.  "It's too fucking late, all right?  I don't know what would have happened, I spent months trying not to think about it.  I'm trying to do the right fucking thing for once, because, guess what, Paulie?  Stuart fucking likes me, and I like him.  Grow up and deal with it, or get the fuck out." 

John left him there, slamming the closet door behind him, undoubtedly to fill Stuart in, let him know that Paul had finally been dealt with.  Paul could only stand there, shaking, the closed door before him almost a mockery.  John had closed him out.  It was over.  He had a chance and he blew it; he'd obsessed over John for two full years, but John had tucked his feelings away and forgot about them. 

How could they move on from this?  How could they go back to being friends?  Paul would never be able to look across the stage and know that John was his, that no one would ever be as close to him as Paul was.  How could he look at Stuart and know that he had lost, that Stuart had taken the only person who had ever really mattered? 

The world seemed to move around Paul in a dreamlike blur.  If there had been anyone around on his way out of the Indra, he didn't notice them—he didn't even know where he was going until he was back in their little room behind the cinema screen.  He was alone, journal in his lap, pen in hand. 

His mind was blank as he began to write.

*** 

There was muffled music playing from beyond the doorway, and Paul's head throbbed with an oncoming headache.  He stared sightlessly at the toilet he knelt before and swallowed thickly—he wasn't going to be sick, though the ghost of the panic that brought him here still lingered in the tightness of his throat. 

The door creaked open, and Paul could hear the music clearly now.  It was John's voice, unrefined and light, singing ' _That'll be the Day_ '. 

"Hey, Macca.  Are you all right?" 

Paul sat up sharply, his mouth falling open.  John stood in the doorway, a worried frown on his young, beautiful face, and Paul's heart soared. 

"I'm okay now."  He was surprised by the sound of his own voice, high and soft—he couldn't remember ever sounding this childish. 

John lifted a brow, hesitantly returning Paul's smile.  "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Paul replied.  He sat back, leaning against the wall.  "I'll be right there." 

Paul's heart pounded, nerves causing his smile to falter.  John must have noticed, because the grin fell from his face in an instant.  He edged into the little bathroom, his brows knitted in concern. 

"Are you sure you're all right?"  He sat down next to Paul, and the proximity sent a burst of heat under Paul's skin.  John hadn't looked at him like this in so long, like he was the only person in the world, and Paul couldn't believe he'd thrown this away. 

The backs of John's fingers brushed along Paul's cheek.  "Are you sick?  You don't feel warm."  He paused, smiling.  "But what do I know?  Could be burning up and I wouldn't know the difference." 

It took all of Paul's self-control not to kiss him right then.  He couldn't afford to mess this up, not again.  He squeezed his eyes closed, drawing in a shaky breath.  "I'm fine." 

John cupped Paul's cheek, and the warmth of his hand, the gentleness of it, was more than Paul could bear.  There was fear in John's eyes, open and unguarded; even as John told him, in the calmest voice, that he was proud of him, Paul could see him losing his nerve.  John glanced quickly over his shoulder, at the door, dampening his lips.

Paul refused to let him go.

"Come here."  He grabbed the open edges of John's jacket, pulled him close.  Before he could do anything else, John had his face in his hands, kissing him softly, and Paul let out a groan that sounded more like a muffled sob. 

He threw his arms around John's shoulders, pulling him closer, and he felt John gasp against his lips.  Paul pressed into his mouth, tasting him fully for the first time; it made John laugh softly, and Paul felt whole for the first time in years.  This was everything, _everything,_ and Paul couldn't get enough.  He surged forward, needing more, claiming everything that John offered; he shifted to straddle him, pinning him against the door, hands gripping at his hair.

John made a muffled noise of surprise, his hands scrambling for something to hold onto.  They settled finally on Paul's shoulders, fingers digging in sharply, trembling under Paul's touch.  Somewhere deep inside, Paul knew that this was too much, that John was probably over stimulated and confused, but he couldn't stop himself. 

There was a noise somewhere down the hall and John froze, eyes widening.  "Macca," he managed, voice cracking, and Paul hushed him gently. 

"No one's coming."

Even so, Paul reached up and twisted the lock, and John's answering smile was wide and amazed.  "You're fucking crazy." 

Paul nodded rapidly— _yesyesyes_ —he was crazy, there was no sense in denying that now.  He was fucked up and he liked boys, he liked _John_ , but maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. 

John only laughed.  "Good.  Me too." 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raise your hand if you gave up on this fic!!
> 
> In my defense, this chapter was originally a whopping 30k and covered a lot of ground in terms of plot and history. So it was very overwhelming to work on, or even think about, sometimes. However, because 30,000 words is excessive for a single chapter (even for me), I decided to split it up.
> 
> Which means!!!
> 
> Chapter 6 is finished and ready to go. It will be posted on August 22nd. 
> 
> So basically this is a double update, and I really hope that makes up for the huge delay!
> 
> In other news, you might have noticed that this work is now part of a series, and this part will have a total of 7 chapters. I made this change for a few reasons: First of all, working on this fic is a lot more manageable when I have a bunch of small goals to work toward. For instance, part one is almost done!!! That really motivates me to push forward and finish, because then it will feel like I've accomplished something. The other reason has to do with the story itself. This fic naturally has three major parts: pre-Beatles, Beatlemania, and post-Beatles. Each one has its own set of conflicts and motivations, so splitting it up seemed to be the best decision for the fic as a whole. However, it is all one major story and should be read in order, now it's just separate "books," if that makes sense. This being the case, I also removed certain pairings from the tags for this part, as they won't be addressed until way later. 
> 
> Anyway, I really want to thank [Kenzie](http://twinkpaul.tumblr.com) for putting up with me talking about this damn chapter for the past year and a half!?? I've never had a more supportive friend, and I'm very grateful for her input and encouragement. Without her, this chapter probably would have never gotten finished. 
> 
> Last but not least, I want to thank everyone who has sent me kind messages on Tumblr or made posts in the 'dear friend fic' tag (I'm twinkjohn on Tumblr btw, if you want to come say hi). You guys really helped keep me motivated!! There's some really cool fanwork (!!!) in the tag, so I really recommend checking it out! I never thought I'd write a fic that actually inspired other people, and I'm absolutely blown away. You guys are the best. ❤

_"C'mon.  John'll be here when we get back."_

_"He was in a fight last night.  At the pub.  I'm afraid he's—he's passed away."_

_"I'd kill myself, you know."_

_Water. Water. Water running endlessly._

Paul woke up screaming, writhing against the suffocating paralysis that started at his legs and swirled up to his arms. His face was pressed against the cold cement floor, where sweat and tears and saliva had made it wet.  The room was dark, too dark, and John was gone. 

Paul screamed for him, the force of John's name ripping through his throat and making his mouth taste like copper.  He lifted his head in a half-hearted attempt to sit up, to get his bearings, but the bitter weight of loss made him slam it back down again, cracking hard against the floor, making his teeth rattle and his brain go numb.  Something about that was strangely satisfying, so Paul raised his head once more, only this time, something seemed to hold it in place, keeping it from falling.

He thrashed his head and something soothing trailed through his hair, once, twice, again; Paul turned his head, burying his face in something soft and warm.

It was hard to breathe, his chest tight and empty, but on each gasping inhale he caught a hint of something familiar, something safe. 

His hearing came back all at once, and a voice filled his ears. 

"Come back to me, love, c'mon, please, you're scaring me." 

It was a long, never-ending stream of words, increasingly desperate, a reedy note of fear in John's tone. 

_John._  

Paul sucked in a breath as if he'd been held under water, and everything clicked into place.  He was on the floor of their room behind the cinema, tangled in a blanket, his head resting on John's bare thighs. John's fingers were stroking his hair.

"Johnny," Paul rasped.  "Baby.  _Baby_." 

It took all his effort to lift himself enough to throw his arms around John's shoulders, clinging to the back of thin, white shirt John wore to bed.  He pressed his face into John's neck, breathing in deep. He was crying but he didn't care; he needed to get as close to John as possible, feel him and smell him and hold him as tight as he could.  John's arms hooked around his waist, one hand rubbing his back in slow, firm strokes, but it wasn't enough. 

"Isn't about time you told us about these nightmares of yours?"  Another voice.  Stuart's. 

Paul's heart dropped like a stone in his chest.  They weren't alone. 

"They're getting worse, aren't they?  When did they start?"

Paul rubbed his eyes against John's sleeve and forced himself to lift his head, though he couldn't quite make himself let go just yet.  "None of your fucking business, is it?" 

"I'm worried about you, mate."  George.  Had he really woken everyone?  "I've never seen you like this before.  Thought we'd have to call for help." 

"Come off it," Paul snapped, though the squeak of his voice made it lack venom.  "Just a bad dream, it's nothing to worry about." 

John sighed, smoothing his hand over Paul's hair, guiding his head to rest once more against his shoulder.  Paul relaxed into him, grateful for a place to hide. 

"Leave us alone, would you," John said to the others, and Paul loved him, _loved him_. 

He and John didn't move until the others cleared out, and then John took his hand, squeezed it.  "Let's get off the bloody floor, c'mon."  He let John guide him to his feet and maneuver him toward their bunk, draping one end of the discarded blanket around Paul's shoulders, and wrapping himself in the other side.  Paul could feel him shivering, freezing in his shirt and his shorts, and Paul leaned into him. 

"It's your mum, isn't it?" John asked softly, his fingers tracing the line of Paul's bicep beneath the blanket. 

"What?" Paul blurted, stunned.  John smiled patiently.

"The nightmares.  I have them, too.  About—Julia." 

"Oh.  I suppose."  John cared about this, Paul could tell.  His defenses were down, unguarded concern in his eyes, a certain gentleness in every movement that was so rare to see.  Even his fingers on Paul's skin were gentle, delicate, as if handling porcelain, and Paul wanted to tell him everything.  "Sometimes I—lately, I mean—I've been dreaming about—y'know…" He shrugged.  "Losing you." 

John's eyes cut away.  "Yeah.  Me too."

A comfortable silence settled over them.  Paul huddled closer, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead to John's shoulder.  His eyes ached from fatigue, his head pounding like a bass drum after its impact on the floor.  It felt good to close his eyes, to be here, with John, knowing he was safe. 

"It's hard, this," John said, quiet.  "Harder than I thought it would be.  Every time I touch you I'm afraid someone will see. I'm losing sleep over it. They're probably talking right now about the way I was holding you— _fucking queer Lennon, should've known about him all along_. " 

Paul lifted his head, searching John's eyes.  "What're you saying?" 

John looked at Paul just as carefully, squinting a little to fully see Paul's expression.  "I get it, is all," he said finally.  "Maybe I don't have the nightmares, but…"  He scratched at his hair.  "I feel like I should do something about it, protect you somehow, but keeping you safe would mean staying away from you.  I can't fucking do that." 

"You don't have to," Paul told him, more fiercely than he intended.  "Nothing will go wrong.  If the others are talking about us, I'll take care of it.  I promise, all right?  I don't want you to worry." 

John smiled wryly.  "I'm not your girl, Paul.  What can you do that I can't?" 

"I've got charm, haven't I?"  Paul winked and John laughed.

"You only wish you did, son."

John's hand found Paul's, squeezing softly—a warm, reassuring pressure. "I just need to know you're all right," John said, serious.

Paul held John's gaze. "I _am_ all right, John. Just a nightmare. Really."

"The fellas—" John sighed. "The fellas think the pressure's getting to you. All the performances, staying up all night, they think you're starting to crack."

"What? They want to send me home?" Paul laughed bitterly. "It's not that. You know it's not."

Though he nodded, the concern didn't leave John's eyes. Paul kissed his cheek. "I promise."  

When the others came back and returned to their beds, Paul could only lie there, shivering, staring at the underside of Stu's bunk. He could feel John's warmth beside him, but it seemed to come from miles away; a distance Paul couldn't afford to close just yet, not until he knew for sure the others were asleep.

The bed shifted as John turned, rolling onto his side to face Paul. Paul could feel his eyes, worry making his gaze heavy, and Paul hated it—hated that everything he did was to keep John safe, keep him happy and alive, but he still managed to upset him anyway. He should never be a source of anything negative in John's life, but here he was, making John fight off sleep just to watch over him.

Slowly, as if to keep the others from noticing the movement, John's hand moved to rest on Paul's chest, fingers spread.

"You're shaking," John whispered, barely a breath.

Paul merely shook his head in response, keeping his gaze upward. He felt like he was balanced on a ledge, teetering; one wrong move could make him fall, gripped by a black abyss of panic and unable to free himself. The quiet made it worse, as did the darkness.

During the day, Paul knew exactly who he was, where he belonged. Now, he could be anywhere. He could be alone in bed, while John and Stu kissed and giggled above him. He could be back in his room in Liverpool, and the dampness on his pillow could be tears instead of sweat, because John was dead.

Paul drew in a sharp gasp, his heart jolting. He'd almost fallen.

John shifted closer, closer, until he was pressed against Paul's side. He didn't say a word, only pushed his forehead against Paul's temple.

It was like John was unwinding him, smoothing out all the tangled threads in Paul's mind with his breath on Paul's cheek. Relaxation rolled over Paul in a wave, and this time the shiver that wracked his body was a pleasant one, all the tension releasing from his muscles. John's presence was the only that could soothe him, remind him that he was in a reality where everything was as it should be.

"What do you need?" John asked, so soft, so quiet.

Paul turned toward him finally, nuzzling against John's face, their stubble catching. _Touch_ —that was all Paul needed. He needed to be as close to John as physically possible, then get closer, until there were no spaces between them.

John, for his part, seemed to understand. Softly, softly, he kissed Paul's cheek, his jaw, his hand sliding up to caress his neck. Paul melted into him, biting his lip to keep from whimpering. John would back off at the slightest chance of being caught, and that wasn't something Paul could risk right now. He _needed_ this.

They'd been caught before—dozens of times. It was hard not to be, living in such close quarters. The first time had been so mortifying that Paul had almost forgotten the journal was an option; his body had been sprawled across John's legs, pinning them down, as he held John's dick in place so he could suck at it. They'd been so quiet, so careful, that Pete's sudden yell had caused Paul to jerk back so hard he hit his head on Stu's bunk, his heart pounding in terror. More painful had been the crack in John's voice as he tried to explain, the commotion waking the others as the confusion turned into yelling.

Paul had grabbed his bag from under the bed and fled, locking himself away in the bathroom, where he unpacked the journal rewrote the entire night. In the time it took him to flip the journal closed, he was back in bed with John—and this time, no one stirred.

Now, however, Paul was too tired, too terrified, too _empty_ to deal with it. The thought of simply putting a pen to paper seemed so hard, and he would only get to that after seeing the looks in their eyes: he could tell how disgusting they found him; how dirty. He was just a lying queer who should've never dared to sleep in the same room as them.

So he kept his mouth closed as John kissed down his neck, tilting his head back to give him more room. The others had finally begun to snore—George's breaths were the easiest to pick out due to their familiarity: slow and even, deeply asleep.  Almost drowning out the sound was the nasally whistling coming from Pete. That meant they were in the clear, and John began to move more freely, his hands sliding firmly over Paul's back.

He and John seemed to have a quiet agreement that it didn't matter if Stu was awake or not, though Paul knew John's reasons were very different from his own. Since Stuart slept above them, John seemed comfortable with touching, as long as they kept quiet. Even if Stuart was awake, he wouldn't be able to see them.

Paul simply didn't care. Out of all the times they'd been caught, Stuart had never gotten out of his bunk, never joined in the tumult. He would never say anything, Paul knew, because there was a version of reality in which Stuart would have loved to take Paul's place. Sometimes, Paul wished Stuart would overhear them, if only to make him realize that John would never be his.

As if to punctuate the thought, John's mouth sealed over Paul's, kissing him deeply, and it felt like magic. Paul had fought for this, changed lives and rewritten time for this, and it still felt like a dream. A perfect, impossible dream.

John's hand had begun to caress Paul's bare thigh, moving higher, his fingers digging gently into the muscle in a way that made Paul's bones melt. The touch slid higher, higher, until John was fiddling with the leg of Paul's shorts, his fingertips just barely slipping under it, feeling the smooth, sensitive skin beneath. Paul trembled.

"Can I?" John murmured against Paul's mouth, their lips brushing damply.

Paul could only nod rapidly, his breath catching, heart beating in his ears.

John kissed him again, tonguing his way into Paul's mouth as he readjusted, sliding his hand slowly, achingly down the front of Paul's shorts. Paul whined—he couldn't help it—the sound muffled against John's lips, arching his hips until John held him.

The touch was electric, bursting through his bloodstream. Paul grappled for something to hold onto, clinging to John's arm as John began to stroke him. It was barely anything, he was just getting started, but Paul could come from this alone; the touch felt brand new, like it had been a million years since he'd had John's hand on him, and Paul sobbed softly into their kiss, hiding the sound there like a secret.

John hushed him, nosing his cheek.

They weren't new to this; John's hold on Paul's cock was as sure and steady as it was on his guitar, and he played Paul just as skillfully. With every stroke of John's hand, every quiet encouragement, all of Paul's nightmares fell away until he was left with this, only this, John's touch putting him back together.

John was panting against Paul's lips, and Paul could feel him now, hard and heavy against his thigh. Paul reached for him, and John was straining against his underwear and the sound he made was needy, desperate. Paul shoved his hand beneath the material, and John was waiting for him, damp and hot. Then they were touching each other in near unison, their shaky breaths blending, and it wouldn't take long, _God_ , Paul was almost there already.

This was everything, _everything_ Paul needed. John's hand, warm and firm and real, holding him, guiding him, burning him down to his very core. He threw his leg over John's hip, changing the angle, opening himself up—John's strokes sped up, and he was panting something against Paul's lips, something too quiet and muddled for Paul to understand. It was like a plea and a promise of safety all in one, something soft and breathless and welcoming.

" _Fuck_ ," Paul hissed, his fist tightening around John, making his gasp.

Then John's words became clear. "Give it to me, love, it's all right—it's all right," over and over like a mantra, and Paul had no choice.

He came, hard and blindingly, sparks shooting through his veins, shockwaves rattling his spine. He was vaguely aware of John following him down, come spurting up Paul's wrist. As they lay there together, shaking, Paul finally felt whole.

*** 

After rolling out of bed at a quarter past three, the five of them sat around a tiny table at the British Sailors’ Society.  They'd stumbled upon the place a few weeks ago, and while they weren't sailors, the manager agreed to provide them with bowls of cornflakes as long as he could stand at their table and pray before they ate.  It was a small price to pay for a free meal, though the cereal was often soggy by the time he finished his longwinded thanks for their safety, health, and a place of familiarity so far from home.    

John and Paul sat next to each other, as always. By now, the others knew better than to try to get between them; they'd always be shoved aside. John caught Paul's eye, smiling, nudging Paul's knee with his own as the manager prayed.  Paul squeezed John's fingers in response, hidden beneath the safety of the thin tablecloth. 

When it was over, and the manager finally left them to their meal, they shared a laugh over today's added request for "strength to resist temptations of the flesh." That was something they'd long ago succumbed to.

"What's today?" Stuart asked, stirring at his cereal. 

Paul could feel John suck in a breath to answer, and his fingers dug into John's wrist.  _Don't_.  Last night left him feeling strange enough already; the last thing he needed was Stuart stealing John's attention. 

Realistically, there was no reason to hate Stuart now.  Even when John had inevitably moved in with him back in Liverpool, Paul had seen for himself that this time they'd had separate mattresses, separate _rooms_.  Somehow, it didn't make a difference.

"Thursday?" George offered. "I think?"

John shifted and Paul's fingers tightened. 

"Thursday," Pete confirmed. 

That settled, John deflated a little, leaning back in his chair.  Paul loosened his grip, smoothing his thumb over the indentations left by his nails.  It didn't take long for John to relax into his touch, turning his hand over to expose the delicate underside of his wrist, which Paul kissed with his fingertips.

On weeknights, their first performance wasn't until eight o'clock, which left them with a few hours of free time. 

"What'll it be, then?" John asked.  Paul could keep him from responding to Stuart on occasion, but in the end, John would always take charge.  Sitting quietly wasn't something he could manage for long.

"We should pay our new stripper friends a visit," Pete suggested.  Last week, they'd discovered a seedy strip club with the most frightening patrons they'd seen so far, but the best looking girls.  One had managed to spot them in the back of the room and beckoned them closer, and the view had mind-blowing.  Even Paul had to admit it, though he'd spent most of the show watching John shift in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs.   

"That blonde did seem particularly interested in our Georgie, didn't she?" John grinned, twisting his arm from Paul's grasp so he could rest his chin in his hands.  Paul let his hand fall on John's thigh instead, but he'd already lost him.  In his head, John was already back in the club. 

George's face was burning and he was stuttering out some kind of protest, but Paul had stopped paying attention.  The last thing Paul wanted to do today was watch a bunch of girls take their clothes off—which, if he'd had any shred of decency left, would have been a sign that he _should_ go, but there was no point in trying to fool himself anymore.

"I dunno," he said finally.  "I'm not really up to it." 

"All right, Paul?" Stuart asked. 

Paul offered him a cold, polite smile.  "Tired, is all.  Rough night, y'know."

Something flickered in Stuart's gaze and Paul felt a surge of satisfaction.  He traced his fingers along the seam of John's jeans, following the curve of his thigh.  "Might stay home and rest, I think.  Resist temptations of the flesh, y'know."  He winked, pressing his palm flat against the junction of John's legs, urging him to take the hint.   

John looked at Paul finally, lifting an eyebrow.  Paul kept his face impassive, held John's gaze, and waited. 

The tiniest smile pulled at the corner of John's lips.  "I'll stick around and look after him.  Looks a little feverish, I think." 

Paul ducked his head to hide a smile, but the heavy weight of Stuart's stare meant it had already been noticed. 

*** 

Paul had imagined taking John straight back to their room and falling into bed, taking advantage of the rare opportunity to be as slow and exposed as they wanted, and maybe experiment a little.  They hadn't done much beyond jacking each other off.  There hadn't been the time or the privacy at home, and there was less of each of those now.  When they'd been lucky enough to find themselves home alone back in Liverpool, they mostly reveled in the freedom of just being together, kissing openly and giggling to themselves like shy schoolboys.  It took a long time before they dared to be naked together, and their hands were shaky and unpracticed. 

Touching each other got easier with time, and Paul began to wonder what else they could do.  Blowjobs were the obvious next step; he'd had his fair share from various girlfriends, and it seemed a simple enough concept.  He and John hadn't had many opportunities to try it, and most of their attempts ended with one of them choking and the other laughing until they were both breathless. 

Still, there had to be more—all they needed was time to figure it out. 

Now would have been the perfect opportunity, except John strode straight past their entrance to the cinema. 

"Johnny?" Paul hesitated at the door.  "Aren't we going to—?"

John turned, smiling, hands shoved in his pockets.  "What for?  Nothing to do there but sleep." 

Paul lifted his eyebrows meaningfully, but John only laughed.  "Maybe later.  I want to do something.  Me and you."

"Like—like what?"  The words ' _like a date?_ ' died on his tongue.  That wasn't something they talked about.  Paul wasn't fully sure that they'd even been out together in a way that qualified as a proper date. 

John shrugged, the shoulders of his jacket bunching up around his jaw line, making him look younger, less intimidating.  "Dunno," he admitted.  "Figured we could just walk around, see what there is to see." 

Something in his tone made Paul wonder if he already had something in mind, something he was too embarrassed to admit aloud.  It didn't matter.  As long as Paul was the one he trusted to go with him.

Paul spread his hands.  "Lead the way." 

They walked close, not quite touching.  Every now and then their arms would brush, and Paul ached to grab John's hand.  He extended his fingers, just slightly, letting their knuckles press together in a short spark of warmth.  John ducked his head, smiling, but he retracted his hand and slid it into his pocket. 

"Don't."  It was just a breath of a word, and something inside Paul stirred. 

Paul pushed his hands into his own pockets, letting his elbow push against John's.  "Sorry," he murmured, just as quietly.  John leaned into the small touch, until their arms pressed firmly together. 

As John led him through the familiar streets, Paul looked around at the place he had come to view as a strange second home, though he could still barely speak a word of German and read even less.  Without the help from signs, he recognized places strictly by their appearance: the shop with bent pole out front, the bar with the boarded up windows that someone had covered in lewd drawings. 

The sun was still out, but it was late enough now that the businesses were beginning to turn on their neon lights for the evening, painting the darkening shadows in flickering reds and yellows.

John turned onto a street that they'd so far avoided.  It was just another part of the Reeperbahn; Paul had looked down this particular street a few times in the past, curious, but it seemed ordinary—as ordinary as their new, sex-obsessed surroundings could be, at least.  The difference was that it was narrower, less crowded.  There were fewer venues; the unintelligible neon signs were more spread out, which made the street seem darker, more dangerous. 

The street was nearly deserted this early in the evening, the heels of their boots loud against the cobbles, and Paul wondered for the first time where exactly John was taking him.  John definitely knew where he was going, and there was something annoying about the thought of John exploring without him. 

Exploring with _Stuart_.   

"Where are we going?" Paul tried to keep his tone light, pushing Stuart out of his mind.  He had no reason to believe John was sneaking out with Stu—no _evidence_.

John's lips curled into a sly smile.  "Just looking around, aren't we?"

"I've never been this way before." 

He hoped John would say that he hadn't either, that they really were just exploring, but John only said, "Good."

At the end of the street was an old building that, at first glance, Paul wouldn't have thought to be open at all.  There was music drifting out from beyond the plain wooden door, something slow and crooning, the opposite of their usual taste. 

Paul raised an eyebrow.  "What's this, then?" 

John only shrugged and led Paul inside. 

It was a club, Paul was surprised to realize.  It wasn't very crowded at the moment; only a handful of men and strange, stocky women lingered at the bar, while the other five or so patrons sat at tables near the stage.  The music playing over the sound system cut off abruptly, and a brusque, German voice made some kind of announcement—likely introducing the first act of the evening. 

Paul angled toward John, catching his sleeve.  They hadn't made it much farther than the doorway.  John was frozen there, looking at him, seemingly waiting for Paul's reaction.

The speakers crackled with the beginnings of a slow jazz song, drawing Paul's attention to the front of the club.  A woman pranced up the three wooden steps leading to a stage, and when she positioned herself in front of the microphone, cupping gloved hands around it, Paul's mouth fell open. 

It wasn't a woman at all.  The face was so clearly masculine; though their jaw line was cleanly shaven, there was still a dark shadow where a thick, black beard would grow in later.  The curled wig that cascaded over their shoulders and the simple, elegant dress weren't enough to distract from it—though somehow Paul got the feeling that the duality was part of the appeal. 

"Should we sit?" John asked, and Paul forced his eyes away from the stage, where the performer had started lip-synching to an Ella Fitzgerald tune.  John looked nervous, his eyes darting from Paul to the door and back again, so Paul circled his fingers around John's wrist and squeezed. 

John didn't pull away, and Paul dared to walk his fingers down John's palm, lacing their hands together.  This time, John's fingers folded over Paul's, and Paul beamed.

John led him to a table about halfway between the bar and the stage.  From here the music was loud, but not to the point where they had to yell at each other, which was a welcome change after many failed attempts at conversation at the Indra, or even the Cavern back home.  Plus it wasn't rock 'n' roll, which felt odd, foreign.  This truly was a date, Paul realized; the music seemed to wrap around them, pull them closer—soft and full of promise. 

John leaned forward, elbows on the table.  "Want a drink?"

In the low light, Paul couldn't read John's expression.  The harsh lights around the stage cast his face in stark shadow, but his smile was warm.  Paul nodded, and John's smile broadened.

"Be right back."

Paul watched him go, his hand touching tabletops as he went to keep from tripping over them, and Paul rested his chin in his hand and smiled after him.  This was his boy, his John.  It had taken so long to get to this point, so much terror and heartbreak, but he'd made it.  Sitting here with his heart pounding, nerves making him bite at the insides of his lips—it was everything. This is what he had rewritten time for. He was nervous and thrilled to be so, because this was John's night, and Paul couldn't wait to see where it went. 

When John returned with the drinks, Paul let his fingers brush over John's as he took his glass.  A little bit of beer sloshed over the side, dripping over his knuckles, and Paul paused to lick it off.

John let out a breath that was almost a laugh.  "Slutty one, aren't you?"

Paul shrugged.  "Can't waste good beer."  It _was_ good beer, funnily enough.  Who would have thought they'd have to come to a place like this for a decent drink?  "How'd you find this place?"

"I have my ways." 

The answer wasn't exactly comforting, but Paul didn't have it in him to care.  Stuart wasn't here, he reminded himself.  Stuart wasn't invited.  He didn't mean anything anymore. 

"Well," Paul said finally.  "It was a good choice."  He pulled out a couple of cigarettes, popping them both into his mouth and leaning across the table for a light.  John grinned and lit up for him, and Paul handed one of the cigarettes over. 

He watched the tip glow as John drew in a breath of smoke, and though Paul had seen him smoke more times that he could count, there was still something entrancing about it—the V of John's middle and index finger, the parting of his narrow lips as he exhaled. 

"I thought we might fit in here," John admitted.  "I mean, more than other places." 

Now that Paul had relaxed into their environment, he could understand John's reasoning.  If men were willing to dress as women and allow other men to flirt with them, a couple of queer boys in the crowd wouldn't stand out much at all.  In fact, it was probably even normal—which was something Paul could hardly fathom.

It was why he'd been allowed to hold John's hand, then.  He watched John's lips close around the cigarette once more and wondered what else he could get away with. 

John nodded toward the stage, where the performer had started another song, one Paul didn't recognize.  "What'd'you think?" 

"Well, it's not like she's really singing.  He," Paul corrected himself, flushing.  "Y'know." 

" _She_ , I think." John smirked.  "I mean, definitely a _he_ , really.  _She_ 's what they prefer, though, I think."  He shrugged.  "I'm not talking about the singing." 

Paul stared at the performer.  What _was_ John talking about, then?  Did he really expect Paul to comment on some man in a dress?  He had bulky arms, a sailor type, and without the makeup and the delicate mannerisms, Paul could imagine him being a nasty, intimidating fellow.

Looking back to John, who was sitting there so expectantly, waiting—for as tough as he pretended to be, he seemed soft and small in comparison, and Paul's heart warmed.  "Not my type." 

John laughed, finishing off his beer.  "What is your type, then?" 

"Isn't it obvious?"

Something in John's expression changed, too subtle for Paul to pinpoint what it was exactly.  But he looked vulnerable, lips parted, his eyes squinted as if he was trying to read Paul's expression, too.  "Tell me."

"C'mon, Johnny, you have to know." 

John shrugged, looking down at his empty glass, swirling around drop of liquid that remained.  There was more to this question than it seemed, and Paul just needed a moment to sort it out.  He had to say the right thing, do the right thing. This felt like a pivotal—he wasn't going to make another mistake that took him years to fully realize. 

He nodded toward John's drink.  "Don't you want another?"

"Ah, Paul—"

"I'll get you one." 

Paul fled to the bar before John had a chance to object, hating himself for being nervous.  It was just John; Paul could easily list every detail that he liked about him, though the mere thought of doing so made him self-conscious.  He could do it.  If that was what John needed, he _would_ do it, but that wasn't the crux of it. 

He stumbled through dealing with the bartender in halting, poorly accented German, aided by a lot of gesturing.  John was better at this than Paul was.  He was better at a lot of things, really, though Paul would never admit it aloud.  He glanced over his shoulder, easily spotting John through the thin crowd.  He was reclined in his seat, his body angled toward the stage, smoking.  He looked good, he looked _lonely_ , and Paul wondered if he'd actually have to worry about other men trying to steal John off him in a place like this.  

He surveyed the other occupants of the club, fingers tapping impatiently on the bar.  No, he decided—he wasn't attracted to strangers in dresses, there was no question about that.  Did John really think he would be?  Knowing John, he wouldn't want to take Paul to a place where he'd actually be tempted, so was this a test somehow?  It was a silly one, if that was the case.  But this was John, and his bouts of insecurity weren't exactly based in any logic or reason.  The best thing to do was take apart John's doubts one by one in the patient, methodical way that only Paul could. 

When he returned with the drinks to find John sulking, he said very plainly, "I like boys, John.  Not lads dressed up as lasses, not—not fellows like _that_."  He indicated the stage again.  "Just—just boys.  Just you, really." 

John stared up at him, stunned.  It was a sweet, vulnerable expression that made Paul's stomach twist, and he offered John a smile as he slid back into his seat.  "Honestly, John, it can't be that big of a surprise." 

"No," John agreed, blinking out of his daze.  "You're a soft git, is all." 

Paul rolled his eyes, hooking his ankle around John's.  "Dare I ask your type?" 

"It's too nasty for your virgin ears, son."  John lowered his eyebrows lecherously and Paul laughed. 

They sat there for a long time, just drinking, talking when there was something to say, the silences filled with sultry jazz.  But the conversation must have still been nagging at John, some unanswered question still on his mind, because when the beer had begun to loosen their lips, the first thing John asked was, "So you wouldn't see a girl again?  I mean, if a good one came along."    

Paul's mind went to Dot, and he swallowed down the rising feeling of sickness with a long drink.  "No." 

"What if fuckin' Brigitte Bardot herself wanted to—"

"No, Johnny, I wouldn't."  The sick feeling was back again, hot in his throat.  If John was having second thoughts, if he was tired of playing like he was queer, Paul didn't know what he'd do. 

They'd first kissed just over two years ago now, and afterward they'd been slow, shy.  Paul had already come to terms with himself, how he felt about John, but acting on it had been another matter entirely.  It took a long time for them to get into anything even resembling a normal relationship, and in that time, they didn't have much to show for it.  On the surface, they'd been no more than friends that kissed sometimes, and while Paul loved him truly and completely, it occurred to him now that enough time had passed for someone like John to be bored with it. 

"It's just—they're rather sickening now, girls."  Paul found himself talking before he'd fully given himself permission to, but it was too late to stop.  "Not that they aren't lovely.  I can look at them still, strippers are fine, I just—I don't _want_ them, y'know.  I can't.  And maybe that makes me fucking sick, but it doesn't matter if you're in it with me."

"Paul," John interjected, voice strained. 

"But I can't have you unhappy, either.  If you're tired of this, tell me.  Don't try to push me off on some fuckin' girl."

"I— _no_."  There was something like horror in John's tone, his eyes wide and afraid.  "It's just that I won't be leaving Cyn—" Paul flinched "—and I thought, if we're going to keep doing this, you should get a girl, too.  So no one suspects anything."

It was a lot for Paul's sluggish brain to process.  He'd already done this with Dot, in another life, and it had failed.  If he couldn't be a decent boyfriend to a girl then, when John had been no more than a fantasy, he certainly couldn't _now_. 

"You brought me here to tell me that?  That I need to find a girl if I want to stay with you?"

"No," John said firmly.  "I brought you here because I wanted to take you out, proper, in a place where I can sit and look at you without someone wondering about us.  Because _you're_ lovely, a fucking gorgeous boy, and you can't fucking talk like you're going to leave me—like I'm going to leave _you_." 

Paul ached to kiss him.  It was nearly a physical pain, pulling like a hook in his chest.  He felt too much all at once, his nerves over stimulated and thrumming under his skin.  He reached across the table, closing his hand over John's. 

"Christ, Johnny—" his voice cracked embarrassingly.  "Remember—remember what we used to say?  That I'm in this until you look me in the eyes and tell me otherwise?"

John breathed out a laugh, ducking his head.  "Yeah.  I remember." 

"It's still true.  I'm with you until you leave me.  But you have to tell it to me directly, all right?  You have to fucking look me."   

John looked at him.  "I'm never leaving you."   

Paul's heart surged, his grip on John's hand tightening.

"Don't you understand that?" John went on. "This isn't a fuckin' game to me, Paul. You…" he hesitated, dampening his lips nervously. "You wanted to know my type? My type—I dunno. I've felt different as long as I can remember, out of place, I never belonged anywhere." He was looking away now, staring at something over Paul's shoulder, unseeing. "I always felt close to my friends. Closer than I should. I would find ways to be near them, invent fuckin' wanking games—you remember."

Paul laughed. It wasn't long after he'd met John that he'd somehow been drawn into John's strange world, a world where it was okay for a group of boys to get their dicks out together. It was so obvious now, in retrospect, but John had been so tough—so overtly masculine—that it seemed okay. 

"I knew it wasn't normal," John continued, meeting Paul's eyes again. There was something urgent and sincere in his expression. "But it was the only way I could cope with—with whatever it was I was feeling." He hesitated. "Do you remember Pete Shotton?"

Paul's mouth went dry. Of course he remembered Pete. It was because of him that he figured out John—and, by extension, himself. He nodded.

"I—he was the first one that I seriously—I thought—" John shook his head to clear it. "I started to imagine it, that we were together, and I thought, _Christ_ , I'm one of those fucking queers, y'know?"

Even though this had happened long before Paul had entered John's life, there was still the tiniest spark of envy. But Pete wasn't the one sitting here, holding John's hands, while John looked at him like he was the most precious thing in the world.

"He was nice," John said. "Kind. Kinder than me, kinder than I deserved. I liked that. And I tried to tell myself, maybe I'm just fond of nice people—that's normal." He paused, searching Paul's eyes. "Then you came along."

Paul's breath caught. "What changed?"

"Everything. My whole world." John was smiling now, real and sweet, his gaze heavy but somehow comfortable, like a thick blanket in the wintertime. "I looked at you and saw someone beautiful. It wouldn't have mattered if you were a girl—I was so angry at first, because you weren't one, and that would've made everything so much easier.

"You were kind, too," John went on. "Like Pete, but different, because we got on in a way I never had with anyone else. The first time I watched you play your guitar—I could feel how much you loved it. The music. Everything about it." He looked aside, his cheeks coloring. "I wanted you to love me like that."

"I did," Paul breathed, "I _do_."

John lifted Paul's hands to his face, holding them there, breathing against them, his eyes fluttering closed. "I'm not unhappy," he said, so soft Paul had to strain to hear it, his lips brushing against Paul's fingers. "I'm happier than I've ever been, and I'm fuckin' terrified of losing this."

"You're not going to," Paul told him, emotion making his voice shake. Another song had started, slow and romantic, and couples were drifting nearer to the stage. "Dance with me."

There were a lot of reasons Paul would have expected John to refuse—he was too tough, this was too public, too embarrassing—but instead he rose, guiding Paul to his feet so delicately, such fondness in his eyes.

It wasn't a song that encouraged real dancing; Paul didn't know if there was a real way to even dance to a song like this. But the few couples around them—all men, and though some were dressed as women, John and Paul weren't the only pair not in drag—had begun to sway slowly, embracing.

John's arms slid around Paul's waist, pulling him in—but not close enough. Paul moved to close the gap between them, and John took a large step back.

"Johnny?" Paul asked, nervous.

"Too close," John murmured. He was looking at Paul strangely, head tilted, squinting.

"No one will find out."

"I know." John's thumb began to trace the curve Paul's spine, softly up and down. "But right here—right here I can really see you. Just let me look for a minute."

It was like the air had been kicked out of his lungs, and Paul tightened his arms around John's shoulders. "Okay," he whispered waveringly, blinking away the telling sting in his eyes.

The music swelled, wrapping around him, and Paul couldn't look away from John's eyes. He looked so sweet, so different from the macho front he put on in public. This was the John no one else got to see, the shy part of himself that he hid from the world, so scared of being rejected, hurt, abandoned. He was safe here, in Paul's arms. He didn't have to pretend.

Paul felt himself drifting closer, drawn forward by the music, John's warmth, and this time John didn't move away. Their chests pressed together, John's arms tightening, one hand sliding up Paul's back to stroke across his shoulders; Paul tangled his fingers loosely in the soft silk of John's hair, not yet styled for the night's performance. And then, finally, the last distance between them closed in a searing press of lips, all the edges that kept them apart blending together like watercolor.

This was their sanctuary. They were surrounded by people, but no one gave them a second glance. Everything faded away except the feeling of John's embrace, supporting Paul, holding him close.

***

They were kissing before they fully made it through the door.  It was stupid, Paul knew, because the others could have already been there waiting for them, but he didn't care.  His whole world had narrowed to the heavy warmth of John's hands cupping his face, the insistent nipping of John's teeth, pulling at his lips.

John had a tendency to kiss as if he thought he'd never get another chance, frantic and all consuming, pulling Paul closer and closer as if to absorb him entirely.  Paul was helpless against it, caught in the tide of John's passion.  He could only hold on, curling his fingers in John's hair to ground himself.  That was the thing about John—he was secretly so sensitive, his emotions coming in extremes.  If he felt something, he felt it completely, and right now, Paul knew exactly what he was feeling: desperate, burning _want_.  

"Johnny—" Paul dragged his lips over John's cheek, breathing hard against his skin.  He rolled his hips against John's, and there was a hardness there that matched Paul's own, making his breath hitch.  "God, I want you.  Christ."

"Yeah," John panted, hot against Paul's mouth.  "C'mere.  Babe." 

Heat surged in Paul's chest as John turned them toward their bunk, which they tumbled onto in one uncoordinated movement.  Paul's hand went between John's thighs, palming against him, dragging a small sound from John's throat.  He loved seeing John like this, when he dropped his defenses and let Paul see all of him, neediness making him forget to be self-conscious.  John spread his legs, letting Paul feel him, his head falling back and swallowing visibly, the lines of his neck long and tight.  Paul kissed the heated skin there, smiling against the vibration of another urgent moan. 

They were sitting at an angle, shoulders pressed against the wall, legs tangled and splayed over the side of the bed.  If anyone came in now, it might even look innocent, like they were just relaxing, talking, no more than close friends.  No one would ever know how much deeper it went, and the thought of hiding such a secret in plain sight was as thrilling as it was disappointing.  John was his, _finally_ , and Paul wanted the world to know.  He curled closer, lured by the rattling of John's breath, John's hand on the back of Paul's neck guiding him.  When their lips met again it was firm and purposeful, broken around the edges by the heaviness of their breath. 

"Please," John said, soft against Paul's lips.  He threw his leg over Paul's hips like a challenge, and Paul, as always, took John up on it.  He rubbed John harder, taking advantage of the new angle, pressing the tips of his fingers against the crotch of John's pants and dragging them forward, following the seam until John's hips jerked.   

It probably wasn't entirely pleasant.  Paul's own jeans were beginning to feel uncomfortably tight, rubbing against him like sandpaper even through his underwear, but John clung to Paul's wrist as if he loved it, needed it.  Still, Paul couldn't stand the thought of being rough with him, even if John got off on it. 

"Let go," he said against John's neck, his lips brushing over sweat.  "Let me get your clothes off." 

John grumbled petulantly and Paul laughed.  "C'mon," he urged.  "Let me suck your cock.  You want that?"

"Christ," John groaned.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I want it." 

Paul twisted his wrist from John's grip, his pulse thrumming back into his fingers.  Even the thought that John would hold him this tight, need him this much, was a thrill—one that filled Paul with warmth and made him kiss John's lips once, twice, again and again, before he even started on John's belt. 

He hooked his finger under the leather and tugged, John's hips rocking forward in encouragement—and then there was a clicking, scraping metal sound.  Before Paul's mind could even process where the sound had come from, John whirled away from him, yanking the blanket after him in a flutter of motion and covering himself up with it. 

That was when the door opened. 

Paul sat there stiffly, knowing he looked guilty and unable to do anything about it as the others filed in, but no one paid any attention to him.  Pete and Stuart were focused on the girl: a tall, stunning blonde, who clung to George's hand and giggled as he lead her inside. 

"What's all this?" John asked, voice groggy.  If Paul didn't know better, he would think John had just awoken from a nap—but he did know.  John was horny and frustrated and depressed, and it was a feeling Paul felt settling in his own chest, heavy like lead. 

"Great," Pete said, beaming.  "Gang's all here for the big moment." 

George's face was bright red, and the girl—who likely didn't speak a word of English—only smiled and touched the tip of her finger to his chin, angling his face for a kiss.

It was surreal, seeing George like this.  In Paul's mind, George was still the young boy he'd met on the bus.  How could that skinny, awkward little boy have grown up so quickly, already developing an interest in girls that went beyond shy smiles and secret crushes? Paul had lost his own virginity years ago, and though there wasn't much of an age difference between them, it was hard to believe that George had reached this point without Paul noticing. 

The movement next to him was subtle, imperceptible to anyone who might have been watching, but Paul could feel it.  John drifted toward him slowly, carefully, until their sides were pressed together, his head nearly resting on Paul's shoulder.  Paul wanted to wrap an arm around him, tell him they had all the time in the world to mess around.  That was John; sometimes he needed to just be held, comforted, reminded that someone cared about him.  But Paul couldn't do that, not with the others here, and that was almost more frustrating than the interruption.  

John sighed, the swell of his chest causing his skin to brush against Paul’s.  It was a lazy sigh, tinged with impatience.  Pete turned and gave him a grin, as if John was actually concerned with George getting on with it.  Not that it would be long now; George had already lead the girl to his bunk and was pulling the cover over them two of them sheepishly, torn between glancing over his shoulder at his audience and ogling the girl’s tits.

She slid her fingers into his hair, using it to turn his head toward her once more. George's face colored as she guided him into another kiss, and then the pair of them disappeared beneath the blanket.

Paul squirmed his arm between the wall and John's back, dipping his thumb under the edge of John's shirt to brush gently against the heat of his skin, settling in the indent of his spine.  John let out a breath, relaxing slightly, while George's bunk began to creak rhythmically. 

The stripper's moans were loud, practiced; breathy German encouragements slipping out with each exhale.  It should have been awkward, Paul thought, listening to one of his best friends lose his virginity.  But really, he couldn't hear George much at all.  There was the occasional whimper—the soft, plaintive sound of someone who was truly overwhelmed—and long stretches of silence.  Paul smiled despite himself and let his fingernails graze over John's lower back, making him shiver. 

He knew George well enough to know he was concentrating, terrified of messing up; Paul could almost imagine the look on his face, his brows pulled together, lips tight, staring distantly somewhere in the girl's neck area rather than looking into her eyes.  If Paul had known this was coming, he would have coached George through it, told him to make sure he _looked_ at her, talked to her.  German girl or not, a worshipful tone was always understood; it didn't matter that she was a prostitute, because getting her off was just as important.  Paul hoped George knew that. 

Now that he thought about it, Paul realized he had no idea what George knew about sex.  He couldn't remember the last time they had talked about it.  It used to be a near daily thing; George would ask Paul about his first time, and all the times after, each time hoping for a little more detail, something that would make it real for him.  When had that stopped? 

Paul slid his hand higher up John's back, laying his palm flat between his shoulder blades.  This was the reason.  He may have gotten George into the band, but somehow they were worlds apart.  The time they spent together alone got shorter and shorter until it had tapered out entirely; if John hadn't allowed George into the band, would they still be friends at all? 

A surge of guilt made Paul press his face against John's hair, squeezing his eyes closed.  John made a soft questioning sound, shifting closer, but Paul only shook his head.  John smelled like smoke and beer with vague traces of his shampoo, which Paul inhaled deeply, struggling to silence the self-loathing that was rising up inside him. 

How could he have neglected their friendship like this?  He loved John, _needed_ John, but he never meant to let his relationship with George fall to the wayside. 

The journal was safely hidden under his bunk.  It wouldn't be hard to go back and mend their friendship.

George let out a quiet, fragile gasp, and that was almost enough to make Paul dive for the journal right now, consequences be damned, but it was John's presence that kept him in place.  He couldn't risk losing this again.  He hadn't _lost_ George, that was the difference.  George was fine—better than fine, if the sounds he was making now were anything to go by—and whether Paul deserved it or not, he still had George's friendship.     

The past was finally perfect, so carefully stitched together by Paul’s journal, revisions upon revisions until it was the way it should be.  The things he had changed in order to get to this point with John, to keep him _alive_ , felt like a teetering tower of cards.  If he went back and changed something as simple as the direction of the wind, the whole structure could collapse.  If he wanted to fix his relationship with George, he had to do it going forward.  There was no other choice. 

George was his friend, his little brother; they would always be a part of each other's lives.  They had to be. 

A final, shuddering groan from George signaled the end, and Paul caught himself feeling strangely proud.  As the shape beneath the cover sunk down, breathing heavy, John began to clap loudly, and Paul was quick to join in.  George poked his head out from beneath the blanket, his face glowing crimson, and the applause only grew, with a few added cheers from Pete and John.   

Paul may have missed a lot of George's life over the past few years, but something about this was comfortable, familiar; just the five of them enjoying each other's company and having a good laugh.  Four of them, anyway—Paul couldn't help but notice that Stuart hadn't contributed much, and now that Paul looked around, he realized Stu was nowhere in sight.  That meant he was probably up in his bunk, silent, watching.  A sense of unease settled over Paul—one that lingered with him through the rest of the evening, making his fingers slip between chords during the night's set. 

He could feel John's eyes on him the whole time, watching him warily, but Paul couldn't take his eyes off Stuart.

***

With a drink in each hand, Paul angled away from the bar. It was hard not to be jostled by the crowd as he maneuvered toward the table, beer sloshing over his fingers. He'd heard the Kaiserkeller club was bigger than the Indra, nicer, but he hadn't known what to expect. He didn't think they'd ever get around to visiting it, but the lure of another Liverpool band—Rory Storm and the Hurricanes—had been hard to resist. They were all curious.

Paul stepped up into the piece of a ship where their table was located, setting a drink down in front of George on the barrel that served as their table. Ropes and miniature anchors adorned the walls, pieces of netting with starfish and sea moss hanging from the corners.

"Why couldn't we perform here?" George asked as Paul sat. "There's a dance floor and everything."

Paul sipped his beer, surveying the club. It certainly drew a larger crowd. He shrugged. "Maybe we'll get lucky. Where's John?"

George's smile faltered. "Toilet," he responded.

"And Stu?"

"What's with you lately?" George asked instead. "You're so hard on him, it's—"

"Did he go with John?" Paul interrupted, more sharply than he had intended. This was important—George didn't understand.

George shook his head slowly, pointing toward the bar, where Paul could just make out Stuart's tiny frame, leaning on his elbows and talking to the barmaid. Paul pushed out a breath, relaxing. This might be nice, then; just the three of them. Pete had found himself a prostitute girlfriend and was spending the evening with her instead.

"Maybe he'll stay over there," Paul said, casting one last bitter glance toward Stu. When he looked back to George, he was frowning.

"So," George prompted, "what's going on with you, then?"

Paul lifted his eyebrows innocently. "What'd'you mean?"

Paul was used to a passive George, one who merely looked away and strummed his guitar when he was upset, who avoided confrontation with his friends—with _Paul_. Paul expected that kind of response now. George should shrug off his concern and go back to neutral territory, go back to discussing the club, the patrons, the band they were about to see. Instead, his eyebrows lowered in undisguised irritation.

"C'mon, Paul, you think I haven't noticed? You have bad dreams every night, you look at Stu like you want to kill him—when you happen to look away from John, that is."

"Stu's a shit bass player and the band suffers for it," Paul said breezily. "That's all."

"You're just—different somehow." George looked down at his drink, spinning it absently on the table. "Sometimes it's like you change overnight. You'll be fine, and then you'll be different, angry. What is it? You're not the Paul I've always known, we've barely talked in ages."

Paul winced; he knew that their friendship was suffering, but it was worse knowing that George had noticed it, too. "Well," Paul started, aiming for levity, "to be fair, you're different, too. The George I knew wouldn't bother with this."

The words must have come out harshly, because George looked hurt. "I worry about you, mate," he said earnestly. "Ever since you met John it's been—it's been an obsession, really. We stopped spending time together. I didn't mind, I was happy for you, but it's—after we made our record, it changed. You barely let him out of your sight. Even now," he continued, raising his voice to recapture Paul's attention. "You keep staring toward the bathroom. Like you can't relax until he comes back."

Paul blinked away from the narrow hallway that lead to the bathrooms, refocusing on George. "He is taking a while, isn't he?"

That was the wrong response, it seemed. George's shoulders slumped in defeat. Paul didn't know what to do; it was like he'd forgotten how to talk to George one-on-one. He couldn't remember the things they used to talk about alone, and it was frustrating, _infuriating_ , and a part of him longed to be honest with him, answer his questions and tell him the truth, but George had chosen the one topic Paul couldn't afford to talk about.

"Why don't you go check on him, then," George said finally. He offered Paul a small smile, one Paul recognized as fake, fake, _fake_.

Still, Paul couldn't turn down the offer in good conscious. He stood up quickly. "I'll be right back."

"Hurry," George told him. "Rory Storm'll come out soon."

Paul, in that moment, couldn't care less about the show. John had been out of his sight for too long now, and Paul's skin crawled with anxiety. What if something had happened? The crowds here were violent, what if John had said the wrong thing and gotten on someone's bad side?

Paul ended up stuck in a line that ran the length of the hallway. He stood there, bouncing on his heels, worry making him shake. It was so tempting to push his way to the front of the line, but the men in front of him were huge, with corded muscles and strong English cigarettes. They were service men, like the ones who showed up at the Indra on occasion, and that was always bound to mean trouble.

It didn't do a thing to soothe Paul's nerves.

From the front of the club, he could hear a sudden burst of applause, followed by a crackling, German announcement through the sound system. The only words he understood, in heavily accented English, were " _Rory Storm and the Hurricanes!_ "

This was followed by another wave of applause, along with a few drunken jeers, then the music started.

George was out there all alone, watching the band they'd all planned to see together. Guilt ate at Paul's conscience, but what could he do? John shouldn't have gone off alone.

As if summoned by the thought, Paul caught sight of John pushing his way through the line, leaving the bathrooms. Paul's heart surged, relief nearly causing his knees to buckle. He caught John's arm as he came by, and John whirled on him, his features tight and aggressive—until recognition set in.

"Christ," John breathed, relaxing. "You might as well just piss outside. I thought I'd never get out of this line."

"Oh." Paul felt ridiculous now, face coloring. Of course John had been caught in line, too. "I was just coming to check on you, really."

John rolled his eyes. "I think I can manage to take a piss by myself, thanks."

"Are you sure?" Paul teased as they made their way back to their table. "I could hold something for you. Help you aim."

John cackled, shoving Paul away from him, and they were exchanging smiles and play fighting by the time they returned to the table.

George glanced up at them, offering a tight smile, and it landed like a dagger in Paul's chest.

"Just in time," George said, raising his voice to talk over the music. "They're taking requests now."

"How're they?" John asked, scooting his chair up to the table so he could lean his elbows on it.

George shrugged. "All right. Their drummer's good."

Paul focused his attention on the drummer. George was right; overall, the band seemed okay, but the drummer could keep a steady rhythm. He looked nasty, though—the type to avoid back in Liverpool. He was older than them, by how much Paul couldn't tell, with a serious face, a cigarette dangling from his lips. A streak of silver ran along one part of his hair, which was slicked back on the sides. His hands glinted in the light as he drummed, and it took Paul a moment to realize it was due to the abundance of rings on his fingers. He was the kind of person John and Paul hoped to be when they donned their leather and styled their hair, only it looked natural on him.

"Shame we couldn't have gotten our hands on him first," John mused, resting his chin in his hand.

"We've got Pete," Paul offered, but he knew it couldn't compare. The fact that Pete ditched them tonight made Paul wonder if he would start bailing on shows—then what would happen? They'd fall apart without a drummer.

"Well," John said coolly, lighting a cigarette. "He needs to do better if we're to compete with this. We could never perform in a place like this as we are now."

On stage, Rory and the others stepped aside to allow for a full view of the drummer, announcing that it was " _Starr Time_."

Paul nudged John. "What's that, y'think?" John, however, didn't respond. He was squinting at the stage, no doubt stealing ideas. Paul smiled at him fondly, but cut his eyes away when he felt George's stare.

Starr Time, it turned out, was a complex drum solo, which morphed into a cover of the Shirrelles' single, _Boys_. It was good—better than good, in fact.  

Paul pushed out a breath, leaning back in his chair and watching in amazement. The drummer did have a certain presence; something that made him mesmerizing to watch. He seemed to drum backward, Paul noted, and wondered if he was left-handed too, or if he'd just been taught wrong. Either way, the resulting sound was unique.

John leaned in close, his mouth a breath from Paul's ear. "How's this for a queer love song?"

Paul ducked his head, hiding a laugh. He could feel George's eyes on them again, but he'd never push John away—especially when John started whispering the lyrics in Paul's ear, making him shiver.

It wasn't long before they had to leave for their own show at the Indra. John was reluctant to leave—he wanted to stick around until after the set to meet with the band, but they were still going strong as he, Paul, George, and Stuart left the Kaiserkeller.

"We should know each other, is all," John was saying. "British solidarity, and all that."

"We'll come back," Stuart told him, as if it was his decision to make.

John laughed, nudging him, and Paul tensed. "We'll come back, he says!" John crowed. "'Course he wants to! Couldn't stop ogling the barmaid's tits, could he?"

Stuart's face colored, and while Paul couldn't stand to see him get John's attention, at least Stu no longer seemed to have his eye on John romantically. Maybe he wasn't as dumb as he looked.

Conversation shifted back to the band, then the Kaiserkeller itself.

"We could really make a name for ourselves there," John said, spreading his arms as if he could already see their name in lights. His eyes were wide with excitement, a look of boyish glee.

Paul smiled at him. "Do you really think it would make a difference?"

"Why wouldn't it?" John responded. "We can't even turn up our amplifiers at the Indra. Anyone who knows better avoids it. If we could actually play the way we want to, in front of a bigger audience—that could change everything."

As always, it was hard not to get sucked into John's grandiose ideas. But when he was right, he was right. The others seemed to think so, too.

"That's what I was thinking," George chimed in. "It's another of Koschmider's clubs, isn't it? Why couldn't he just move us over there?"

"Maybe he doesn't think we're good enough," Stu offered. Paul nearly laughed—if they weren't good enough, Stuart was the reason.   

Paul pressed his shoulder against John's—just quick enough for him to feel it. "We'll get to perform there one day. I promise."

During their show at the Indra, Paul surveyed the audience; their surroundings. The Kaiserkeller wasn't perfect, but it looked like a palace compared to the Indra, and at least there had been more than a handful of prostitutes and their clients in attendance. Besides which—John was right. After listening to loud, real rock n' roll, their quiet amplifiers made them sound childish in comparison.

Why _shouldn't_ they perform at the Kaiserkeller? Didn't they deserve it?

By the end of the night, Paul had made up his mind.

***

The news came the following day: Due to all the noise complaints, they were no longer allowed to perform at the Indra. That night, they'd start playing at the Kaiserkeller.               

John was ecstatic, and his enthusiasm rubbed off on Pete and Stu. Only George, Paul noticed, looked confused— _disappointed_.

They were just leaving for a late lunch when George caught Paul by the arm, stopping him in the doorway to their cinema room.

"How'd you do it?" he asked. It wasn't a demand—he didn't even sound angry—but Paul's defenses raised like spines.

"Do what?" he spat.

"You know what."

Paul's temper flared. George had no right to question him like this, no right look at him with those pitiful eyes. If George had access to this kind of power, he would use it, too.

"Actually, I don't," Paul said, ripping his arm from George's grasp. "If you're finished, I'd like to get some lunch now."

George continued as if Paul hadn't spoken: "It's odd that we've been suddenly moved to the Kaiserkeller, isn't it? The very day after we visited it. After you assured John we'd play there someday."

"We got lucky."

"Did we?" George asked.

"What else could it've been? Think I got on my knees for Koschmider, then?"

George merely stared at him. "Did you?"

"Jesus Christ, George!" Paul threw up his hands. " _No_! I didn't do anything. We got lucky, why can't you accept that?"

"I'm glad we get to perform there," George said quietly, almost serenely, and the lack of anger in his voice was almost as infuriating as the interrogation. If they were going to fight, then they should _fight_. "I really am," George went on. "And I don't think it makes you a bad person, or a dirty one, if you did something—something like _that_. I just don't think that's the type of sacrifice you should be making for the band. It isn't worth it."

"Save your sympathy for someone who needs it," Paul snarled, yanking open the door. "I certainly don't."

"This is what I was talking about," George continued, and _Christ_ , he didn't know when to stop. "This thing with John—it's an obsession. He said he wanted something, and you got it for him."

Paul released the door, letting it fall closed. He turned to face George in the tiny, dirty space they called their home. He looked so calm, so unbearably patient—Paul wanted to physically knock the look off George's face.

"What makes you so sure I'm responsible?" Paul snapped. "As I recall, you were the one who kept going on about the Kaiserkeller. _Oh, it's so nice, so big_ — _why couldn't Koschmider let us play here instead?_ " This he added in high-pitched, lisping voice that was nothing at all like George's.

Finally, emotion flickered across George's face—a guarded sort of hurt. Still, Paul seized it, let it fuel him. "How do I know _you_ weren't the one on his knees for Koschmider? Did you like having that fat Nazi dick in your mouth, Georgie? Shame you didn't choke on it."

George's face colored in outrage, his eyes glassy. "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with _you_?" Paul shot back. "Why can't you just accept that something good has happened? Why do you have to ruin it?"

"I'm not trying to," George said, quiet. "I just—something feels wrong. I thought talking about it would make it start to make sense, but you're so _angry—_ "

"Don't I have every right to be?" Paul stormed toward George, stopping only when their faces were mere inches apart. He could feel George's nervous, shuddering breaths, and this— _this_ —was what he'd been wanting. The calm façade was long gone, but Paul wanted to push him over the edge. "What is it with you? Always sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. Are you that jealous of John and me?"

He knew he'd regret this, all of it, but watching George blink back angry tears was too satisfying to resist. Paul had hit him where it hurt.

"I miss you," George said thickly. "I miss spending time with you, talking to you. I don't mind John—I _like_ John, but…" He trailed off, his brows knitting together. "You like him too much."   

"Too much?" Paul repeated. "Who're you to decide?"

"I'm your friend!" George cried, a thin note of desperation in his voice. "I'm not deciding anything! I'm _worried_ , is all."

There was something addictive about this, something exhilarating. Paul held George's emotions in the palm of his hand, and he wanted to know how far he could go. None of this had to be permanent; he could say whatever he wanted.

"What do you want to hear?" he said calmly. "That I'm a fucking queer in love with John Lennon? Do you want me to tell you that he's my _boyfriend_?"

George's eyes widened, mouth hanging open. He looked like he'd been slapped, and Paul could hear the strained creaking in his throat as he searched for words. It was like being drunk without losing control—Paul had control of _everything_ , and he felt like a god.

Saying those words aloud seemed to have lifted a weight from Paul's shoulders; he'd been trapped in his and John's bubble of secrecy for so long, he'd forgotten how badly he'd once wanted the band—the whole world—to know the truth. Paul found himself making his way toward his bunk, sitting down on it.

"A long time ago," he said casually, reaching under the bunk to grab his luggage, "I asked you what you would do if you had a magic book. Remember that? You could write down anything you wanted and it would happen."

George nodded stiffly. He seemed to be frozen in place, unable to move beneath the weight of Paul's secrets. Paul unlatched his case. He couldn't believe he was doing this. His heart was hammering in his chest, making his hands shake has he dug through his things. It was hard not to smile—the thrill was sending sparks through his bloodstream, his bones trembling.

He held up the little leather-bound book. "Well, George, this is it."

George managed a thin laugh. "I don't understand."

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Paul demanded. "The truth? I've never told anyone else about this, you get to be special after all." The smile disappeared from George's face as if Paul had snatched it away with his own hands, a mix of confusion and sadness in its wake. It was the sadness that pushed Paul forward—there was no going back now.

"I've used this to save John's life," he confessed. It was almost therapeutic; he couldn't have stopped if he'd wanted to. "I've used it to get us a tour of Scotland. I used it to get us into the fucking Kaiserkeller—you were right."

"You're lying," George said finally, his eyes searching Paul's. "You're having me on."

"I'll prove it to you," Paul said, plucking his pen from the spine of the journal. His lips were quivering; he was probably smiling now, smiling like he was mad. "I've been trying to fix our friendship, y'know? I wanted us to go back to how we were, but you haven't been making it easy."

George flinched. "I'm sorry. I just thought we could be honest with each other. I thought that would help."

"I have been honest with you," Paul said. "I haven't been this honest with anyone in a very long time." He smiled bitterly, opening to a blank page. "But I can't let you remember it."

"What do you mean?"

" _Today,_ " Paul narrated as he began to write.

"Paul—"

" _George accused me of manipulating Koschmider to get us a spot at the Kaiserkeller._ "

George took a few staggering steps closer. "What are you doing?"

" _I told him not to worry, we had just gotten lucky, and he believed me. He realizes now that he was being ridiculous; he no longer thinks I have an obsession with John, and he's stopped bothering me about it_."

"I'm sorry, all right? I won't tell anyone, you know I won't."

" _Our friendship will be better than ever now_."

"Paul, I don't understand—"

George reached for the journal, but it was too late. The ink was already drying on the page.

"Sorry, George," Paul said simply, and he flipped the journal closed. 

*** 

The days slipped by quickly after that, and Paul felt like he'd achieved a sort of high. There was something about confessing everything right to George's face, watching his expression change from confusion to shock to horror—then wiping it all away as if it had never happened. It had been exciting. It had been _fun_.

The adrenaline carried Paul easily through their first nights at the Kaiserkeller, kept him energized and excited onstage. It didn't even bother him when Pete announced he'd be skipping out on the night's set.

"Oh, pardon me," John snarled, "don't let the band get in the way of your busy schedule."

"I have a girlfriend now," Pete said calmly, as if that explained everything.

John's face colored with rage. "So do I! And I left her back in Liverpool! The band's the only reason you're here, and you'd do well to remember that."

"It's fine, John," Paul cut in. "We'll do fine without him, he's only here because we needed five, anyway."

Downplaying Pete's importance did a lot for John's mood, it seemed, as he let the matter drop with little argument. Then it was just the four of them, leaving for a long, tiring show while Pete tucked himself into bed; resting up for tomorrow morning's date.

Paul didn't care. He had John, and now he had George. Stu's presence was irrelevant, but even he'd been distracted lately, eyeing a lovely girl in black who'd been attending their performances.

Everything was finally falling into place. This was the reality Paul was meant for.

When they reached the Kaiserkeller, Rory Storm and the Hurricanes were just finishing up their set, the club thrumming with the steady beat of the drums. They made their way to the back to unpack, and Paul kept a hand on John's shoulder to steer him around the tables and the burly, drunken patrons. The last thing John needed was a fight with one of these men.

They got to work quickly, unpacking their instruments and getting in tune with what had become methodical ease. Paul glanced to his left, watching John stare absently at something on the ceiling, chewing on a wad of gum as he turned the pegs on his guitar. The sight made Paul smile. It seemed like so long ago now that John stood, so young and inexperienced, on the back of a lorry at the Woolton fete, his guitar tuned entirely wrong. Even when Paul had shared his own tuning method, John could only pull it off with great concentration. Now, it seemed effortless.

"Looks like you're one short," someone observed, and Paul blinked out of his reverie to see Rory Storm's drummer—who'd turned out to be called Ringo—leaning against the wall, puffing away on a cigarette. Paul didn't think he'd ever seen Ringo without one.

"Pete skived off," George told him. "For a girl. Can you believe it?"

Ringo clutched a hand to his chest, staggering in exaggerated horror. "Not a _girl_!"

"We'll make do without him," John said, hoisting his guitar. "We've done it before."

"What's a band without a drummer?" Ringo asked, grinning, and Paul felt a prickle of irritation. George, for whatever reason, was laughing. He seemed to be the only one who'd taken to Ringo without a second thought; Paul, however, remained unsure. Judging by the frown on John's face, he shared Paul's doubts.

"None of your business, is it?" John spat his gum aside, puffing out his chest. He was a good deal taller than Ringo, but Ringo seemed inherently rougher—it was impossible to know how a fight between them would go.

Instead of rising to John's challenge, however, Ringo only looked at him in what seemed to be genuine surprise. "Didn't mean to intrude, just thought I could help."

John deflated like a popped balloon. "Pardon?"

"I figured I could fill in for tonight, y'know, so you wouldn't have to do without." Ringo smiled. "But if you'd rather I didn't, I'll just be getting home."

"Well, if you're _offering_ ," John said, a little too quickly, and Ringo laughed and laughed.

On their way to the stage, Paul could hear George's voice, soft and quiet, "Don't mind him, he's always like that."

"It doesn't bother me," Ringo replied, and he sounded entirely too happy for someone who'd been performing all night, and just signed himself up for more. It made Paul even more suspicious of him, because _no one_ should be this unwaveringly cheerful without some ulterior motive.

The suspicion, however, died out before they'd even finished their first three songs. It should have been difficult playing with someone new, they should have been fumbling and awkward while they felt each other out, Paul should have been looking over his shoulder nonstop to make sure Ringo was going to stay with them, keep a solid backbeat.

They'd made it through their easier, warm up songs before Paul realized that he hadn't looked back at Ringo at all. The beat was there, steady and reliable, in a way that Pete's had never been. Paul often found himself glancing back at Pete, wondering if he'd get distracted, or if he'd be there for the next big shift. But Ringo fit them like a glove, and Paul found himself relaxing into the set and enjoying himself in a way he hadn't in a long time.

He let his eyes wander, following Stuart's gaze toward the back of the club. The girl in black was there again, along with two boys dressed similarly, one on either side of her. They looked so different from the rest of the crowd, so artsy and interesting, as if they alone knew the answer to all of life's mysteries. There could have been a time, Paul thought, that he might have been jealous of the way the girl looked at Stu—her elbows rested primly on the table, fingers interlaced to form a hammock that she rested her chin upon. Her gaze was confident, striking even in the dim light of the club.

Paul shot her a wink, just for the fun of it, and she smiled. He glanced at Stuart to see if he'd managed to irritate him, and bit back a laugh when he noticed Stu had started trying to show off, swaying with his bass and striking classic Elvis poses. There was no further need for Paul to interfere—Stuart was doing a great job making a fool of himself.

Paul shifted his focus to John, who felt Paul's stare and pulled a face. Paul laughed. Let Stuart do whatever he wanted—Paul had the only thing that really mattered.

When they stopped for a break, John, Paul, George, and Ringo headed to the bar. Paul could see Stuart trying to weave his way through the crowd, angling toward the girl in black and her friends. But Stuart was small, drowning and lost in the sea of people, and Paul laughed to himself, shaking his head.

"Christ," John groaned, as they waited for the barmaid to bring them their drinks. "Dunno if I can handle another four hours of this."

"All right?" George asked.

John caught Paul's eye, smirking. "Tired, is all." Paul's heart jumped as memories from last night came back to him—they hadn't gotten a lot of sleep. "Don't know how you're still carrying on." This was aimed at Ringo, who merely shrugged.

"It's a pill—Preludin, or something like. It keeps you awake. Ingrid has them sometimes." Ingrid was, apparently, the barmaid. Ringo called her name, and she sauntered over with their drinks, an elegant eyebrow raised.  

Ringo spoke to her in halting German, eventually holding open his eyelids to demonstrate the effect of the pill. Ingrid nodded, giggling, and produced a little bottle from her apron. She turned to Paul and the others, and they held out their hands.

"One to start," she told them, accent rich and heavy. "More later, maybe." She tapped a pill into each of their hands.

Paul only hesitated for a moment—after watching John swallow his along with his entire pint, Paul pushed his nerves aside. Whatever the pill did, good or bad, Paul wasn't going to let John experience it alone. He tossed the pill back, taking a large drink, and Ingrid smiled.

"It will help with show," she said, almost reassuringly, and Paul hoped he hadn't looked too nervous. Even George was polishing off his drink, the pill gone from his hand.

By the time they returned to the stage, Paul felt like his eyelids were being held open by tiny, vibrating fingers, ants marching trails of fire through the grooves in his brain. It was unnerving but strangely pleasant, and when they launched into their set, he could tell John and George were feeling it, too. Stu was the only one who lagged behind, tired and sagging, and somehow, it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. He doubled over his guitar, laughing hard as he played. He managed to nudge George, nodding toward Stuart.

George followed Paul's gaze and ended up laughing too, and suddenly they all were, all but Stuart, and it seemed impossible to stop. Every time he started to calm down, he'd catch George's eye, or John's, and that would set them all off again. It felt like something magical, an energy that drew them closer, and Paul wanted to take a pill every night if it could make them feel this good.

***

The weeks continued to blur together, one performance after the next with little time to rest in between. Stuart had ended up connecting with Astrid, the girl in black, and her friends Klaus and Jürgen. He'd introduced them to the rest of the band, and Paul was surprised to find that these mysterious artists were just as fascinated by their music. They'd all started to spend time together when they could, and Astrid had taken their photos, which had been fun—Paul thought it made them seem professional, having their pictures taken by a real artist.

Perhaps best of all, Astrid's mother was able to help them get their own bottles of Predulin, which it felt, now, they couldn't survive without. What worried Paul, however, was that John continued to take more and more. When pressed, he'd dismiss Paul, telling him one just wasn't enough anymore. There was a part of Paul that knew it seemed wrong, but there was no harm in having a little extra energy, was there?  He just had to make sure he watched John closely. 

As they finished up their show for the evening, Paul’s head was buzzing. He’d taken more than his usual share of prellies tonight, mainly to keep up with John. He could feel the vibration of his final chord rattling through his bones, making him shake until he thought his skin might fall off.  He wasn’t ready for the night to be over.  He wanted to launch into another set, he wanted to run out into the street and scream.

Instead, he smiled and took his bow with the others, and it felt like they were moving in slow motion. He could see John’s hands shaking on his guitar as he removed the strap from his shoulders, like something about to explode.  John wasn’t smiling, hadn’t been even during the bow.  There was something tense and dangerous in his posture, the dark sort of energy that meant he was looking for a fight, and he didn’t care who it was with.  Probably someone bigger, stronger, and drunker than him.  

The thought crept up Paul's spine, made his skin break out in a cold sweat.

He could still so clearly see that image of John outside the bar, a memory from a lifetime ago: cold, drunk, and alone, drenched by the rain.  If things had been different, that would have been the last time Paul had ever seen him.

As they left the stage, Paul maneuvered his way around the others to catch up with John.  He squeezed George’s shoulder as he passed him, offering a simple “good set, mate,” before hooking his arm around John’s neck.

John tensed under his touch and Paul’s heart skipped, nervous.  "Hey," he said gently.  "All right?" 

John shook his head a few times, as if he was having trouble clearing it.  His hair hung down in damp strings around his face, which were tossed around with the motion, flinging droplets of sweat. 

He shrugged out of Paul’s hold. "Stop fucking acting like that."

"Like what?"  Paul’s heart was thundering in his chest; John got like this sometimes, when he was drunk, Paul knew that.  That didn’t calm the part of him that would change the world to keep John safe.  "What’s wrong?"

" _That_ ," John snarled.  He stopped walking so abruptly that Paul nearly crashed into him.  The others only stood there, watching, and Paul’s skin was burning with the weight of their stares.  "What is it with you?  Always treating me like a fucking baby, like I can’t look after myself, can’t make my own choices—"

"I’m not taking away your bloody freewill, John."  Paul was only barely aware of the way he had begun to shake, his heart pounding in his throat.  There was no way John could have noticed, Paul was only doing what was best for him, keeping him alive. "I wouldn’t fucking do that—"

"C’mon," Pete interjected, "you’re both out of your bloody minds right now.  Let’s just put our stuff away and—"

"This is none of your fucking business, is it?" John whirled on Pete, poised as if to hit him.  Before Paul could move, Stuart caught John’s wrist. 

"Hey," he said, so achingly gentle that Paul nearly hit him.  "Relax.  All right?  Just relax.  Can we talk?"  He tugged lightly on John’s wrist as if to lead him off.

"You can fucking talk right here," Paul answered.  "You’ve got nothing special to say that the rest of us shouldn’t hear."

"John?" Stuart pressed, barely sparing Paul a glance.

John looked blank.  Blank and somehow worried, his eyes cutting to Paul and back again.  He shook his head again, like there was something lodged there.  "All right," he said.  "All right, just—just a minute."  The last part was directed at Paul, something strange in John’s eyes.  And then he was following Stuart down the narrow corridor, one that reminded Paul of the Indra, the path to their little storage room, and that was the breaking point. 

Paul lunged after them, hands balled into fists, vision blurring around the edges.  All he could visualize was the door to the storage room closing behind them, John kneeling before Stuart and kissing him, _kissing him_. 

" _Fuck you!_ " Paul snarled. "Fuck the both of you! He doesn't _belong_ to you!"

He charged after them but someone was holding him, keeping him from moving forward, and distantly, Paul could hear a gentle voice, but it was hard to distinguish over the yelling. He could barely register the yelling as his own, it seemed to come from somewhere far away, but he could feel it being ripped from somewhere deep inside him; a place dark and hidden.  

"I'm going to _kill_ you! I'm going to make sure you die!"

It wasn’t until George stepped in front of him, cutting off his view of John and Stuart’s retreating forms that Paul's tirade stuttered to a stop.  His throat burned from the strain, angry tears prickling in his eyes.  He sagged against Pete’s hold. 

"All right now?" George asked, soft.  He seemed to take Paul’s silence as a yes, and went on, "I think you took too many uppers, you’re shaking all over, not acting yourself." 

Paul couldn’t look at him, much less respond.  It felt like something inside him had come unhinged; a distinct sense of wrongness settling over him, like putting on a shirt inside out and backward.  He had to do something about Stuart, he _had to_ , because if John was out of Paul’s sight then he wasn’t safe. 

"I need to get him," Paul said, and he only managed a couple of steps before Pete’s fingers tightened on his arms, yanking him back.

"It’s just Stu," Pete said, as if that somehow made it better. 

George laid a gentle hand on Paul’s shoulder.  "The only thing you need right now is to go home."

"You don’t fucking get it."  The words were spilling out and Paul didn’t care to stop them; he only wanted that stupid, pitying look off George’s face.  "You don’t understand anything, he’d be fucking dead if it wasn’t for me.  I’m the only one who can keep John alive and if you keep me from him it will be your fucking fault when something happens."  Tears were building up somewhere in his throat, making his voice tight and reedy.  "I can’t watch it happen again, I _can't_."

The pitying look did begin to fade, only now it was becoming something genuinely sad.  "Oh, Paul," George said quietly.  "What else did you take?  Did someone give you something?"

"Please just let me go to him," Paul moaned, grabbing at his own hair, his nails tearing at his scalp.

"It's safer for you to be apart right now," George said calmly. "That's all. You can see him when we get back to the cinema."

With that, Pete's arm settled gently around Paul's shoulders and angled him toward the exit. While Paul wanted to scream, wanted to fight and kick and drag himself to John, the angry energy had already left him. He could still feel the effects of the pills, vibrating hard in chest, but instead of yelling, all he could produce were loud, frustrated sobs.

John was going to die without him. John would always die without him. Paul knew that, and he hated himself for walking away.

"I can bring him back," he told himself, voice wavering.

George nodded reassuringly, rubbing his back. "Sure you can, mate."

"It's okay, it's okay, I can bring him back."

George continued to reply with meaningless encouragements, but Paul could barely hear him. He was already planning what he'd write, how he'd fix this.

First, he'd take care of Stuart. Maybe he could get hit by a car on their way to the Kaiserkeller, or attacked by a mugger. Then John—he'd stop John from taking too many pills, and then he'd be fine. Then he wouldn't lash out at Paul, and they wouldn't have to be separated. Easy.

When they got back to the cinema, Paul dug out his journal and huddled up in his bunk.

"Are you sure you're going to be all right?" George asked.

Paul nodded. "Just going to write some letters home," he managed.

"That'll do you some good," George said, smiling. "Take your mind off things. I bet John and Stu will be here before you finish."

He opened the journal to a blank page, smoothing his trembling hand across the smooth, cool paper. Did he really want to do this? He hated Stuart, he always had, but was this worth taking a life? Was he really the type of person who could do that?

He bit at his lip, tearing off dry pieces of skin with his teeth, the pinpricks of pain keeping him grounded. Would he not miss Stu, even a little? John would be fine regardless, so was there any point in this kind of revenge?

Paul thought about the gentle way Stuart spoke to John, the soft look in eyes, his hand on John's arm. From there, it was too easy to remember the way their lips looked together, no space between them, pressed hard against each other as if they couldn't get close enough.

Hatred burned through him like a wildfire. There was no going back.

He'd just touched the pen to the paper when the door swung open. He managed to spare a glance, though he already knew what he'd see: Stuart standing there alone, a look of horror and regret on his face.

In fact, it took Paul a minute to realize that was _not_ actually what he was seeing.

Stuart and John entered the room as if everything was fine, calmly splitting off without a lingering look at each other. Stuart headed off to the bathroom, and John went straight to his bunk. Straight to _Paul_.

Paul pushed out a breath that was nearly a sob, and John offered a sad smile.

"I'm sorry," John said simply. "I didn't mean to—you know what I'm like."

Paul could only nod rapidly, relief quaking in his bones. John was fine. He was _alive_.

John settled in against Paul's side, looking over his shoulder at the blank page. "What're you doing?" he asked, soft.

It took Paul a moment to respond. He swallowed thickly, an ache in his throat from unshed tears. "Just—just writing home."

John made a contented noise. "Go on, then."

Paul twisted the pen between his trembling fingers, his palms sweating. He had no choice. He just had to watch his wording, make sure he didn't write down anything that wasn't already true. Before he knew of the journal's power, he had written all kinds of meaningless things in it. This would be no different.

He turned his head just enough to place a soft, lingering kiss in John's hair, then focused on the page.

> _Mike,_
> 
> _How are you? We're doing great here. Our performance schedule is difficult, but we've found ways to make it bearable. Tell dad I miss him._

He hesitated a moment. It was hard to think of Mike now, even if the things that had transpired between them no longer existed in this reality. Still, guilt made Paul return his pen to the page.

> _I've been saving my wages—we're doing pretty well for ourselves. I'm enclosing some money for you and dad. There's enough for you to get a new camera, a nice one, but you can buy anything you fancy. Let me know what you spend it on._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Paul_

Paul tore out the page, folding it and setting it aside. He waited a moment for John to laugh, to ask him when he'd gotten so sentimental, but he was silent, breathing heavy.

"John?" he murmured.

He was answered with a soft snore. Paul smiled, his attention returning to the journal. Even though John wasn't hurt, the remnants of Paul's panic, his _hatred_ , still lingered. This had been none of Stuart's business, he had no right to go around acting like he knew what was best for John. He couldn't be allowed to get away that.

Paul already knew what to write.

He took one last glance at John to make sure he was really asleep, then, as quickly and silently as he could, he sealed Stuart's fate.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a little bit of German in this chapter. I don't speak German!! I relied almost entirely on Google Translate, so if there's an error, that will be why. Feel free to correct me! 
> 
> I already had this chapter written in advance, so it'll be a while until the next update, but hopefully it won't be another year haha. 
> 
> Thanks as always to [Kenzie](http://twinkpaul.tumblr.com) for looking over this for me!!

It wasn't long before everything started to change.

Every night, the club seemed to attract more of a younger crowd—a crowd who seemed to come to see them specifically. It was as if the band had gotten on stage one evening, and instead of looking out at a bunch of burly servicemen, suddenly there were people lined up at the front of the stage, waiting for them, reaching for them. More and more began to wait around to meet them during their breaks, and if Paul hadn't known any better, he would have thought the journal had made this happen. It was too good to be true.

A cursory check of the pages proved no one had touched it besides himself.

They were doing this. They were really doing it. The band was gaining something of a following, and Paul was happier than he'd ever been.

Almost.

One thing still nagged at his mind: The words he'd written about Stuart. Now more than ever, Paul found it hard to look at him, be near him. Stuart seemed so happy, so blissfully unaware of what was coming to him. It shouldn't make Paul feel this way. He and Stuart had physically fought before—granted, it was in another timeline, no longer existent, but Paul rather liked the memory of Stuart's blood on his fists. Why should this be any different?

As much as he tried to push it from his mind, to downplay what he'd written, he found himself tense and edgy on the night he had written about. Even John's reassuring smiles couldn't cheer him up; Paul didn't know when or where or _why_ Stuart's punishment would unfold, and that almost made it worse. If he'd written out a specific scenario, at least he'd know what to look forward to.

 _Christ_. He grimaced, his fingers slipping on the last chord of their set. Who was he to punish someone anyway?

They took their bows, and their ever-growing group of fans cheered appreciatively. They, at least, were willing to overlook Paul's sloppy playing. As the band left the stage, Paul could see a busty blonde in the front smiling at him, trying to catch his eye. Paul turned his head, sickened. If she knew him— _really_ knew him—she'd never look at him like this, like he was something desirable.

Paul trotted ahead, catching up to John, grabbing the back of his jacket in a loose fist; like a child clinging to its parent to keep from getting lost in a crowd. That's how he felt now, hiding behind John: small and stupid, too afraid to face the consequences of his actions. If he could just hide long enough, maybe things would sort themselves out.

"What's with you, then?" John asked, once they reached the relative privacy backstage. His words were flippant, but his tone was soft. Paul felt strangely guilty allowing himself to be warmed by it.

He shrugged. "Tired, is all."

John sighed as if he knew Paul wasn't being entirely truthful, but he let it go. "Let's get out of here, then," he said, taking his guitar case from its place against the wall. He opened it up on a pile of crates so he could lay his guitar inside.

Paul followed suit, grabbing his case from the corner. That was when Stuart announced, "You lot go ahead, I'm going to say goodnight to Astrid."

He left without even packing up his bass, earning an exaggerated eye roll from John. Paul wished he could enjoy John's irritation.

"Bet he'll go home with her," John grumbled. "Left us to clean up after him like his bloody maids."

Paul only bit at his lips, tearing off thin shreds of skin until they bled. He could feel John's eyes on him, expecting a response, but Paul didn't take his eyes away from his guitar, which seemed to blur wetly as Paul laid it in its case.

Paul blinked his eyes rapidly to clear them—this was _stupid_ , Stuart would be fine. That didn't relieve the tightness in Paul's chest.

As the minutes ticked by, Paul's nerves caused his hands to shake, and a lump began to form in his throat that was difficult to swallow around. John was holding Stuart's bass, turning it over in his hands, grumbling to himself.

"He'll come back," George said calmly, lighting up a cigarette. "Probably just having a conversation."

Paul could feel John's eyes on him again, and it felt almost accusatory, like he _knew._ Eventually, John ended up packing Stuart's bass himself, and every time he complained about it, every time he grouched " _bloody Stu_ " under his breath, a cold hand seemed to grip at Paul's throat.

"Maybe we should go check on him," Paul blurted.

John eyebrows shot up in surprise.  "Check on him?" he repeated, amused. "Want to catch him with his tongue down Astrid's throat, then?"

"I don't think—I'm just saying, maybe something happened."

John's smile faded. "Like what?"

"I dunno, maybe—maybe he got mugged or… I dunno."

"Shit—y'think..?" He couldn't finish, and for once, Paul couldn't blame him. He could still undo this if it was worse that he imagined—he was upset when he'd written in the journal, he hadn't been thinking. He just wanted to scare Stuart, not hurt him.

When the four of them rushed outside, however, Paul's eyes immediately found Stuart in the shadow of the alleyway, crumpled and forgotten like the trash littered around him. Paul had hurt him, hurt him _badly_ , by the looks of it—Stu lay there on the cobbles, face bloodied, just now regaining some kind of consciousness.

John rushed to his side. "Shit—shit, Stu, what happened?"

He took Stu's face in his hands, gently angling it to look at him. Stuart made a soft sound, spitting out a stringy blob of blood, his lashes fluttering. "'S'nothing," he mumbled.

It looked like he'd taken a hard blow to the head, blood creeping down from his hairline and between his brows, his eyes bruised and swollen. He was shaking hard, his breath ragged and harsh, the trembling fingers he curled around John's wrist leaving a smear of blood in their wake.

Paul wrenched his eyes away, his chest tight. This wasn't what he wanted. Writing down something as simple as " _Stuart gets beat up after a show_ " seemed so innocent, so abstract. Even though Paul had experienced the journal's power time and time again, it had only been in pursuit of good things. He never imagined using it to cause real harm, and maybe a part of him hadn't believed it would actually work.

This was so different than their fight on stage. That had been equal, fair. This time, Stuart hadn't stood a chance. Paul himself had seen to that.

"D'you need a doctor?" John asked urgently.

Paul could hear Stuart muttering "'m fine, 'm fine," like a broken record, and Paul's skin chilled. Even after their fight, Stuart hadn't sounded this _broken_.

No one deserved this. As much as Paul hated to admit it to himself, Stuart hadn't even done anything wrong. All Paul had against him were vendettas from another time, things Stuart could even be held responsible for anymore. And if he was a little handsy with John—so what? John was Paul's now. He'd said himself that Paul was special, _beautiful_. There was no reason for him to feel threatened by anyone.  

He was so _stupid_.

"Just help me get home," Stu said finally, plaintively. John's shoulders slumped, but he nodded anyway.

"All right, all right, yeah—we'll take you home. Nothing you can't sleep off."

John and Pete hoisted Stuart to his feet, each with one of his arms around their shoulders. His body sagged, his head lolling from side to side, as they began their slow, agonizing walk to the cinema.

Paul trailed behind, George's comforting hand on his shoulder, making him burn with guilt. George wouldn't dare touch him if he knew what Paul had done. No one would ever forgive him.

Paul wasn't fully sure that he could forgive himself.

***

Stuart's condition only seemed to worsen by the time they reached the cinema. He'd been able to walk along with John and Pete most of the way, but they had to nearly drag him through the door, and Paul felt horrible, like a monster.

He'd done this to Stuart. This was his fault.

John guided Stuart to his and Paul's bunk, allowing him to collapse there. Stuart made a soft sound of confusion, reaching up as if he planned to pull himself to his bunk, but John hushed him, catching his hand.

"Too much trouble to get you up there, isn't it?" John asked, soft, and his tone made Paul squirm. "Just sleep down here tonight."

Stuart turned his face against the pillow, breathing in deep, and Paul could almost imagine that he was basking in John's scent. The familiar pangs of bitter jealousy started seeping through the guilt—after all he'd done, he might have inadvertently pushed John right into Stuart's arms. It might be what he deserved, but he couldn't allow it.

A gentle nudge caught Paul's attention, and Pete said quietly, "I'm going to go wash the blood off," in a tone that really meant, _"Let's leave them alone."_

"I—" Paul managed, but there was nothing to say. Pete was already making his way to the adjoining bathroom, George at his heels, and Paul was frozen. Just seeing John like this, knelt beside the bed, holding Stuart's hand in both of his; it was almost worse than seeing them kiss. There was such concern in John's eyes, every line of his body relaxed, his guard down, because nothing mattered to him anymore besides Stuart's wellbeing.

He probably didn't even realize Paul was still standing there, and that hurt most of all.

"Are you sure you don't need a doctor?" John murmured, his eyes searching Stuart's.

Stu smiled. "I'm fine, John. Really." He shifted, angling onto his side to face John more fully. "Nothing I can't sleep off, remember?"

John attempted to return the smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. He freed one of his hands—still holding onto Stu tightly with the other—and picked up a corner of the blanket, dampening it with his tongue. "Who did this to you?" he asked, wiping gently at the blood crusted on Stuart's face. "Did you see?"

Stu shook his head carefully, such a small movement that it was barely visible at all, but it was enough to make him wince. "No," he said tightly, "I didn't get a good look."

"What did they want?" John pressed. "Money?"

"I don't—they didn't seem to want anything. Just—just this." Stuart waved a hand feebly, indicating his current condition.

John sighed, his eyes squeezing closed. "I'm sorry. Someone should've gone with you, we should've checked on you sooner, we—"

Stuart's freehand moved to John's face, gently cradling his cheek, and Paul's chest seized. This was the end, and there was no one to blame but himself.

"It's not your fault," Stuart said quietly, and John tensed. "You shouldn't—I never want you to feel this way. You should never feel bad because of me."

John stopped washing Stuart's face, letting the blanket fall from his fingers. Stuart barely qualified as clean, the blood had been mostly smeared around, but he smiled anyway.

"Thank you," Stuart went on tenderly, "for looking after me. I…" he trailed off, shaking his head. Then he was leaning up, the hand on John's face sliding to the back of his neck, guiding him closer.

John jerked back. "Enough." He freed his hand from Stuart's grasp. "You hit your head harder than I thought."

Stuart seemed to deflate, sinking against the pillow. "I'm sorry," he said thickly, swallowing hard.  

John huffed, standing. "Sleep," he commanded. "You need it."  

He turned, and suddenly he and Paul were face-to-face; Paul was hit with the bizarre urge to run, to pretend he hadn't seen anything. John's eyes widened when they landed on Paul, the color draining from his face. He jutted his chin toward the door urgently, and Paul followed him out.

"I'm sorry," John said, when they were alone together on the street. He paused to light up a cigarette. "I didn't know he was going to—Christ."

When the smile spread onto Paul's face, John seemed taken aback, squinting at him as if he'd gone mad.

"Fuck, Johnny, why're you apologizing?"

John stared at him. "You're not angry, then?"

"No," Paul breathed, and he was almost laughing. "No, why would I be angry? You didn't do anything." Saying it aloud made it real: John hadn't done anything. He turned Stu down, pulled away from him as if he were poison the second he realized Stu's intention.

He was loyal to Paul now, in the way that he had been to Stuart so long ago. In the way that Paul still believed lingered between John and Stu, a bond just waiting to be revived. But that bond didn't even exist anymore, would never exist. Stuart was never the problem; the only wedge between Paul and John was Paul's own lack of trust.

John scraped the heel of his boot against the pavement. "Is this why you hate him so much? Could you tell?"

"I had a feeling," Paul replied. He shifted closer, pressing his arm against John's as he lit up a cigarette of his own. "I…" he started, faltering. _I'm sorry, I trust you, I_ love _you_. None of those things should be hard to say, but Paul's throat went tight. "I could never be mad at you," he murmured instead, and he felt John relax against him.

There, hidden in the shadow of the doorway, John pressed a soft, lingering kiss against Paul's cheek.

It was a long time before they went back inside.

*** 

Stuart was better the following day. He was bruised, dazed, but a good sleep and a washed face made all the difference. He even managed to make it to that night's show, though he needed a handful of prellies to make it through.

Onstage, Paul offered Stu a small smile, which Stuart hesitantly returned. It came as such a surprising relief to watch Stu play, fumbling through his parts and making a mess of it all. Now that Paul didn't have to worry about Stu and John, he realized how strangely comforting Stuart's presence was. He was one of them. For better or worse, they wouldn't be the same without him.

During their first break, one of the bouncers they'd come to know—a man named Horst Fascher—joined them at their table.

"Well, isn't this a lovely surprise?" John asked, grinning. "We're getting thrown out, then?"

Horst laughed. "No, no." He leaned in, lowering his voice as if anyone might overhear them despite the noise of the club. "I've been offered a new job—manager at a new club."

"Are you going to accept it?" Paul asked.

"I already have. I won't be sticking around here much longer."

It was difficult to be happy for him—being friends with the bouncer certainly had its perks. There wasn't much they'd had to worry about with him around. Hamburg was violent, and the clubs could get nasty, but they'd never been in harm's way thanks to Horst. At least, not until Paul went out of his way to ensure Stuart would get hurt. The lingering touch of guilt made him shiver.

George broke the uneasy silence. "What club is it?"

"The Top Ten. It's only just opened—we've got Tony Sheridan and The Jets playing there now. Problem is—" Horst leaned closer "—they've got to get back to England soon, and we'll be looking for a new group."

"So are you offering it to us, then?" John asked shortly. Paul touched John's hand under the table, soothing him. He was the only one who could make excitement look like anger, and under the influence of the prellies, he often didn't know what to feel.

"I'm offering you an audition," Horst corrected. "It's a better facility, you'll get a new place to stay—nicer than the tomb Koschmider’s locked you away in. And I know you've gotten as tired of working for him as I have."

Paul exchanged glances with the others, who seemed to be considering it. Koschmider wouldn't like it if he found out, but he didn't have to.

An audition couldn't hurt.

***

The audition turned into a performance, which turned into Koschmider ending their contract. It was almost a relief, except he also told the authorities George was underage. And then, in the blink of an eye, George was being sent home, and the rest of them had to perform another thirty days at the Kaiserkeller without him. Hardly a day went by without Paul holding the journal in his hands, wondering what he could do to fix this.

It would be easy to keep George's age from being discovered, but the incident with Stu had left him shaken. He hadn't used the journal since; he'd been scared to even open it.

The journal made him a different person. He'd gotten someone injured—considered getting them _killed_ —all because he was jealous of a relationship that no longer existed. That wasn't normal.

He could still hear George's voice in his head, telling him he was obsessed with John. Maybe George was right. From the day he'd first met John, he'd wanted to bend time and space to be with him. He'd fallen in love with the smell of beer on John's breath, the way he held his guitar, the way his eyes looked through his glasses. The way the light hit John's hair in the church hall was still so vivid in Paul's mind, the strands around the edges glowing like a halo, warmed by the sun.

Paul could remember touching him, his breath catching in a way that it never had before. John moved him to write before he even knew of the journal's power; John alone awakened something in Paul, something overflowing with passion, inspiration, but there was something dark and deadly lurking under the surface. Something Paul was too afraid to face.

He'd once tried to get rid of the journal entirely, but that was no longer a risk he could take. For now, to keep himself sane, to keep himself _human_ , he had to put it away. He couldn't be allowed to use it—he couldn't be allowed to _look_ at it, unless there was a true emergency.

What defined an emergency, however, he would decide later.

"Sorry George," he whispered to the silence of the room, and he tucked the journal away in his bag. This was the second time he'd let George down with those words, and the guilt kept him awake for hours. 

*** 

During their final days at the Kaiserkeller, they'd begun moving their belongings from their room behind the cinema to the attic above the Top Ten club. Progress was slow; they'd somehow accumulated more belongings than they'd thought, and they didn't have many hours a day to spare. Most of the work was done by night, as they used up the last of their adrenaline from the night's performance.

John latched his suitcase, hauling it in one hand and his guitar in the other. "This is it for me, then," he announced, looking around as if he'd actually miss the place. Paul felt a twinge of regret; he and John had made a lot of memories here. It had never been fit to live in, but leaving still felt bittersweet.

"I think I'm finished, too," Stuart said, bemused. "When we leave here, we don't have to come back. Can you imagine?"

Paul laughed, shoving a pile of shirts into his suitcase. "I've been imagining it since we got here." This earned him a smile from John, and Paul let it wash over him. This was better than upsetting John with nonstop bickering; it was almost enough to make Paul wish he'd been nicer to Stuart from the beginning.  

"I guess we'll take this stuff over to the Top Ten, then," John said. He turned his gaze to Paul, something cautious in his expression. Like he didn't know if this was allowed. "You and Pete meet us over there, all right?"

"Sure," Pete replied. "We're almost done."

Paul, however, could only look at John. Weighed down with his luggage, he reminded Paul of when they first set off to Hamburg—he looked so young, so bright and full of hope. The thought of him going off to their new home without Paul, even for a few minutes, was enough to cause a prickle of panic, but he tried his best to quell it. John wasn't going far, and he wouldn't be alone. Paul didn't want to be obsessed, didn't want to forget how to trust people, didn't want to hate everyone who wasn't John. These moments of separation, no matter how small, were good for him.

"I'll see you there," Paul said, and John beamed. "Be careful."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, mum," he said, sickeningly sweet, but there was something loving in his eyes. That was enough for Paul.

Then John and Stu were gone, and the room felt darker than ever. Paul shivered—there was a part of him that was screaming inside, longing to chase after John, to see if he was even alive. Paul shook the thought from his head. He knew where he was. He knew what timeline he was in. John was fine.

"Tuesday," Paul whispered, just under his breath. "The 29th of November, 1960." It helped to hear it, to say it, but the darkness put him on edge. It had to be around four or five in the morning; too long to wait for the sun to rise.

"Dark in here, innit?" he said to Pete, and it was hard to keep his voice steady. Pete, however, didn't seem to notice.

"Yeah," Pete grumbled. Paul could barely see his silhouette; he seemed to be knelt on the floor, halfway under the bunk. "'fraid I'm going to forget something."

"Me too." Paul pawed through his luggage. They didn't have a lamp, but he had a lighter in his pocket. There had to be something in here that could illuminate the space a little, if only to keep the intrusive thoughts away. "D'you have anything we could burn?"

Pete's only reply came in the form of tossing something across the room, which landed flimsily in Paul's lap. Paul picked whatever it was up between two fingers to examine it, squinting to make out the form of it. It was something light and rubbery, dangling between Paul's fingers in a way that was too familiar. Paul flung it away as if it had burned him.

"Fucking hell, Pete!" he cried, wiping his hand on his shirt. "A condom?"

"It hasn't been used," Pete said simply. "It's better than nothing."

Paul carefully retrieved it, plucking the condom from where it had landed in the gap between the bunk and the wall. "I dunno if this is flammable," Paul murmured as Pete approached him.

"We'll find out." Pete took the condom from Paul's delicate hold and carried it the far wall, where a single, bent nail had always jutted from the damp cement. Pete stretched the lip of the condom and impaled it on the nail, letting it hang there, limp and useless.

Paul giggled at the absurdity and fished out his lighter. It took a few tries to get the condom to light, but when the fire caught, Paul and Pete burst into laughter, clutching each other for support as the little flame blazed. It barely lasted a minute, and the smell was horrible, but it did wonders for Paul's mood.

He and Pete bantered while they finished packing, passing jokes about the flaming condom, and Paul forgot to be afraid of the dark. For the first time, getting ready to leave their old room, he finally felt at home in his own time period.

When they were finished, they stopped at the door for one last look.

"Gonna miss it?" Paul asked.

Pete laughed, elbowing him. "Fuck no."

"Then let's get out of here."

They'd barely made it out the door when they ran into Koschmider himself, his face red with fury. "What is smell?" he demanded. Paul's stomach dropped. " _What is smell_?"

Pete was the only one of them with a decent grasp on German, and he began speaking rapidly, gesturing with his hands enough for Paul to understand he was explaining that they'd been packing. He was probably telling Koschmider that they couldn't see and needed the light—even someone like Koschmider had to understand that.  

Except Koschmider seemed to get angrier by the second. Finally, with a growl, he shoved past them, grabbing them both by the collars on the way and dragging them back into the room. Paul's luggage slipped from his hands, landing hard on the concrete floor, his guitar thrumming sadly in its case. Koschmider didn't appear to notice. He lead them straight to the burn mark on the wall, as if he already knew he'd find it there.

" _Das feuer!_ " he bellowed. " _Brandstiftung! Polizei!_ "

Paul jerked in Koschmider's grasp, hoping to make a run for it, but Koschmider's hold was like iron. The fabric of Paul's shirt was pulled taut around his throat, cutting off his airway and forcing him to surrender to Koschmider's grip. "We weren't trying to burn the place!" Paul pleaded. "We just needed some light!"

Pete, in his panic, had also switched back to English. "We didn't want any trouble, just let us go and you'll never have to see us again."

Koschmider began dragging them again, this time down a familiar path. It was one they walked every Thursday, when they would go to his office to collect their wages. This time, however, they stumbled after him, pleading and twisting in his grasp. It was only when they entered the office that Koschmider released them, shoving them into the room.

"You wait," he told them, in a tone that promised trouble if they didn't. Paul and Pete stood there, frozen, as Koschmider picked up the phone and began dialing a number.

"They can't lock us up for this," Paul whispered, shivering. "Can they?"

"Only if he can convince them we were trying to burn the place down," Pete answered grimly.

Paul sucked in a breath, wrapping his trembling arms around his chest. This wouldn't happen. It _couldn't_ happen. "The walls are concrete, we couldn't've burned it down if we'd wanted to."

"I know," Pete replied, but he sounded resigned. Paul felt like a kid again, in trouble at school and pleading his case to a teacher who pretended to be sympathetic, only to punish him anyway.

Their only way out of this was tucked away in Paul's luggage, which had been left behind. Paul drew in another shuddering breath, anxiety crawling up his spine. He wanted to make a run for it, go back to the cinema and get his things, find a place to hide so he could rewrite all of this. But Koschmider would be right behind him, would probably guess that Paul would go back to the cinema first. He couldn't risk it—he _had to_ —but he couldn't.

After all, it wasn't like they would go to jail for this. It was just a misunderstanding.  

He was proven wrong when the police arrived.

He and Pete weren't given a chance to explain before they were being escorted to a police car, and _holy shit_ , they were being arrested.

"Wait!" Paul pleaded, as a German officer shoved him into the backseat. "Wait, just listen! Please!"

The door slammed closed, cutting him off, and Paul threw himself against it as if he could somehow break free. What if Koschmider confiscated their luggage? What if he found the journal? What if he used it? What if he lost it, sold it, destroyed it?

" _You can't do this_!" Paul shrieked, throwing his weight against the door once more.

"Hey," came Pete's voice, "just relax. They won't lock us up forever."

"You don't get it!" Paul snarled, turning on him. If someone else got their hands on the journal, the whole world could change. "I have to get out of here, I have to get my stuff—"

"Stu and John'll probably pick it up, don't worry—"

The mention of John's name pushed Paul further toward the edge, toward the dark oblivion of panic. "I should have never let him out of my sight! I should've gone with him—I _knew_ —"

Pete frowned. "You're worried about John? He's fine."

"No he's not!" Paul knew that now. This was what he deserved for not following his instinct, for trusting anyone else with John's safety. Everything was slipping out of Paul's hands and there was nothing he could do about it, nothing but sit here and watch Hamburg blur past them as they headed to jail, where he'd be locked away and forgotten.

He felt like a caged animal, claustrophobia closing in on him fast, and Paul threw himself against the door again. He was yelling now, loud and incoherent, he wanted to claw his way out of the car and feel the night air on his face; he wanted to tear off his own skin because even it felt too tight.

"You need to relax," Pete said loudly. "What is going on with you? You're not _normal_ , Paul, this is the second time I've seen you freak out like this over John recently."

Pete didn't understand, he could never understand. Even Paul didn't understand it, and that was what made it so terrifying. He could rewrite any day, but he wasn't in control. He never had been.

All it took was going back to their first kiss for him to realize that.

***

"Hey, Macca.  Are you all right?"

"I'm okay now." 

 "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll be right there."

John's fingers brushing Paul's cheek; the soft, adoring look in his eyes. The sound of John's voice floating from the record player. It was all the same as it had been. July 12, 1958.

"Are you sick?  You don't feel warm.  But what do I know?  Could be burning up and I wouldn't know the difference."

It had really worked. John's relationship with Stuart was no more than a horrible memory that would only be real in nightmares. Their kiss in the Indra Club's storage room would never happen; Paul would make sure of that. All he had to do was kiss John right now, on this day, at this moment, and their lives would be different forever.

"Come here." He grabbed the open flaps of John's jacket, pulling him in, and John's hands cupped his face and they were kissing. It was a soft, gentle thing, but Paul could feel the shift in the Earth's orbit, a sudden change in gravity that knocked him off balance, made him cling to John to support. 

He didn't know how he ended up straddling John's lap, pulling at his hair, John laughing and shaking beneath him.  It didn't matter.  Nothing would ever matter again—he'd fixed the biggest mistake of his life. After this, he would never have to worry again.

When the kiss ended, they sat together, winded, side by side against the locked door. Paul could hear George, Collin, and John Lowe, their voices muffled and distant, punctuated suddenly by Julia's chiming laughter. Paul smiled and his eyes slid closed, his fingers seeking out John's in the space between them.

It was strange—surreal—to think that he had just come from a time where Julia had been long dead. That future didn't exist anymore. Already, it seemed as if it had all been a vivid dream—so real to experience, but fading quickly. This was reality. He was sixteen years old and the future was undecided.

The feeling of John's eyes on him brought him back to the present. Paul turned his head, meeting his gaze, their noses mere inches apart.

"What was that about?" John asked, his voice soft, guarded. His lips were still damp, pink from their kiss, and a giggle bubbled up from Paul's chest.

"Don't be daft, John."

John broke eye contact, staring down at his lap, and it struck Paul that this was still uncharted territory for John. Paul had the luxury of entering this scenario and knowing that it would work out, but as far as John knew, he was about to be laughed at, judged, hated.

"Hey," Paul said gently, squeezing John's fingers. "That wasn't just an experiment, y'know. I kissed you—"

" _Shh!_ " John interjected, panicked.

Paul lowered his voice to a whisper, though he couldn't keep the amusement out of his tone. Hiding this now seemed so trivial. "I kissed you because I wanted to. Because I like you. I like you in the way that you're supposed to like girls. But I don't, because I'm crazy—I told you." 

"God," John sighed, thumping the back of his head against the door. "I thought it was just me." He was silent for a long time, his eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling, a small smile playing at his lips.

There was something so beautiful about him—something Paul couldn't put his finger on. He seemed carefree in a way that Paul hadn't seen in years, a light in his eyes that Paul hadn't realized had gone out. He wanted to lean in, kiss John's cheek and breathe him in, but he had to be careful. John needed time to work this out.

"There's a girl I like, too," John said finally, and Paul's heart seized. "Cynthia—you know her. But I've had girls, and it's not—I still want—"

"I know."

John lifted his head, meeting Paul's eyes. "I'm not saying I don't want to do this. I want to do it again, if you'll let me, I'm just saying that I'm—you said you don't like girls, and I do, but—"

Paul managed a small smile, brushing the tips of his fingers over the delicate rise of John's cheekbone. "It's okay." It _was_ okay—John had managed to keep a relationship with Stuart until they had reached Hamburg. That meant that he wouldn't be over this in a month. He wouldn't get bored and regret it.

"Are you angry?" John asked. Paul shook his head. "Then can I...?"

John leaned in, his breath mingling with Paul's, and Paul's eyes fluttered closed in invitation. John's lips brushed against his own, a feather-soft touch, and it trembled through Paul's bones. This is how it should have been a lifetime ago; John's hands soft and shy on Paul's shoulders, fingers drifting upward to touch the heated skin of Paul's neck. This was John's kiss and Paul let him have it, let John's lips slide over his cheek, his mouth waiting and willing when John returned to it with more confidence, kissing deeper.

Paul did nothing to rush him. He only stroked the soft, fine hair at the base of John's neck, hoping John didn't notice the way his eyelashes were beginning to dampen.

***

Home was, without question, the last place in the world Paul wanted to be. He hardly remembered how to be a normal teenager with no future prospects; at least the chance of going to Hamburg had given the band some clout, especially in Paul's personal life. It seemed his dad had finally started to treat him like an adult, since Paul would actually be bringing home a real paycheck.

All of that was gone now, and all that awaited him when he walked through the door was his father, leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. The day's newspaper lay folded in his lap; he must have read through the whole thing, waiting up for Paul.

"Where've you been, then?" he asked, his expression dark.

It took all the self-control Paul had not to laugh. By his Hamburg standards, it wasn't late at all. In fact, it was early. "With John."

" _John_ ," Jim repeated, his thin brows lowering into a flat line over his eyes. "And what've I told you?"

Had they had a conversation about John? "I can't recall."

Jim threw the paper to the floor, pushing out a great gust of air through his nostrils. He stood, towering over Paul in a way that seemed so unfamiliar—he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this short in his father's presence.

"This," Jim said slowly, precisely, "is unacceptable. You were never late until you started spending time with that Lennon. I've half a mind to keep you from him entirely."

Something about the threat did seem vaguely familiar, but it seemed so… insignificant. Jim wasn't talking to his sixteen year old, clueless, smitten, wreck of a son. Paul was probably nineteen by now, factoring in all the little times he'd gone back a day or a week or so. He was above this. He didn't need parental guidance in his life anymore, and he certainly didn't need Jim's baseless worry about John's influence.

Though Paul was looking up at Jim, he saw his father, in that moment, as the small one. Weak. Tired. Dish towel tucked into the pocket of his trousers, glasses somewhat askew from apparently dozing in his chair. Paul wasn't even angry with him—how could he be upset with someone who held no power over him?

"All right," he said.

Jim blinked once, eyes wide. He'd clearly been expecting a fight. "Right. Good, then. Off to bed with you."

Paul went, though he stopped on the stairs to add, "We made a record today." He pulled the shellac out of the hem of his pants, where it had been guarded by the flap of his jacket, and tossed it toward his father. "Give it a listen. Maybe you'll change your mind about the band."

Later, while Paul lay in the darkness, pretending to be asleep, he heard the band's rendition of ' _That'll be the Day_ ' playing quietly, so quietly through the walls. A small smile pulled at his lips, his fingers tapping to the beat. It wasn't bad, really, for their first record. It was John's voice that made it worthwhile—he sounded so sweet and light, so far away from the rough, smoky edge his voice had taken on in Hamburg.

Paul stared up at the ceiling, which was no more than a blur of gray shadow in the dim moonlight. He'd done it. John was his. This was the way it should have been the first time, laying here, listening to John's voice, and knowing what it felt like to kiss his lips. A shiver went through him and Paul rolled onto his side, pulling up his knees.

The song ended and the house fell silent for a prolonged moment. He could've gone to sleep like this—should have, in fact. This day had lasted for years. When he'd woken up today, it was a Saturday in 1960. He'd played for hours at the Indra, and even then, the fatigue had made it difficult. From there, he and Stuart had fought on stage, only for Paul to later find him with John. It had been a whirlwind of emotions, and Paul knew he should be tired, knew that once he fell asleep he could sleep for days, but his eyes felt like they'd been glued open. He felt restless, out of place. All he really wanted to do was call John, see what he was doing, how he was feeling.

But John needed his space—they both did. That was the only reason Paul had left his side at all. John had been jumpy and cautious after they'd left the bathroom, too scared to make eye contact, standing as far away from Paul as possible. He needed time to come to terms with the change in their relationship; Paul, after all, had had years to sort out his feelings.

From his dad's little record player, Paul heard the beginning notes of ' _In Spite of All the Danger_ '. He wished, in that moment, he'd left the record with John. John needed to be the one listening to this, listening to the lyrics Paul had written and understanding that they were for him. John would never know how true the words were; when Paul had first written them, even he didn't know how much he meant them. He'd do anything for John. He already _had_.

He'd done everything for him.

Paul's eyes drifted to the bookshelf, no more than a silhouette in the darkness. He hadn't checked, but he knew the journal was still there, in its hiding place, waiting for him. The thought throbbed in him like a second heartbeat, making him ache to write something, just for the sake of it. It was like going all day without needing a smoke, then craving it the second he caught the lingering smell of one. It crawled in the back of his throat like something alive, making Paul sit up, bite at his lip.

Nothing needed to be changed, but he still felt compelled to at least pick up the journal, look over it, make sure it was where he'd left it.

He had the journal in his hands before he fully realized what he was doing, and he took it to the window for a better look. It was the same as it had always been: cracked spine, the black leather fading to gray around the edges, flipping open smooth and easy. What could he write? There had to be something.

Paul stared out at the moon, lost in thought. By the time he came back to himself, the music had stopped, and Paul's legs were numb as if he'd been standing there for hours.

"Christ," he muttered, flipping the journal closed. "This is stupid."

The present was already perfect. He'd finally gotten everything he wanted, every little thing he'd changed had been a futile attempt to fix this very moment. He didn't _need_ the journal anymore. Its very presence was a danger—if he changed anything, his carefully constructed reality could come crashing down around him.

He had to get rid of it. After all, where was the fun in life if he could control every aspect of it? He'd fixed his mistake, so it was time to let life surprise him.

He slipped his jacket back on and tucked the journal into the back of his pants, letting himself quietly out of his room. What could he do with it? Where could he put it? It had to be somewhere no one could ever find it, but he didn't want to risk destroying it, either. What if that, somehow, undid all the things he had written?

Paul waited on the landing for the sound of his father's snores. They were slow, steady—he'd been asleep for a while now, it seemed. Paul made his way down the stairs, hand skimming along the wall for balance in the dark, concentrating on the position of each footfall to avoid the telltale creak of the steps. He let himself out the front door and had nearly made it across the garden when a voice stopped him.

"Paul!" Mike hissed from the doorway. "What are you doing?" He had that mix of irritation and excitement in his voice that only little brothers were capable of—torn between telling on him or joining him, depending on his answer.  

"Go to bed, Michael," Paul told him.

Mike crept out a little further, bare feet in the grass. "Tell me where you're going and maybe I will."

Paul rolled his eyes, kicking at the ground. The dirt was loose, soft, he noticed. Jim must have been digging around, fighting off the weeds.

"I said I'd meet John, now piss off."

"Meet him where?"

"Oh, sorry mum," Paul snarled, "I thought you were dead. I guess you just got ugly."

Mike straightened, frowning. "That's not funny."

John would have laughed, Paul knew, which only served to frustrate him more.

"Piss off, Mike, I mean it. I have plans."

Mike only stared at him, long and hard, unmoving. He looked so like Jim in that moment, arms folded across his chest, stubbornly waiting for a fight.

"Look, just tell dad everything in the morning, all right? I'll take whatever punishment he's got for me, but I have to go now."

Mike took a step back, but he made Paul wait for a long, agonizing minute before finally responding. "Fine. You have to put on his tea for the rest of the week, too."

Paul dug the heel of his boot further into the dirt. "Fine."

He waited there until Mike disappeared inside, then waited a little longer to make sure he was really gone. He continued to kick at the dirt, just for something to do, and by the time he realized Mike wasn't coming back, he had the beginning of a fairly decent hole. 

It was as good of a hiding place as anywhere else. If he dug down deep enough, he wouldn't even have to worry about Jim finding it.

He dropped to his knees and began digging with his hands, the dirt parting easily through his fingers, grit packing under his nails. He wished he had a spade or something, but he didn't want to cause even more of a commotion by rummaging through his father's tools. Should anyone catch him, he had no way of explaining why he was digging a hole in the garden in the middle of the night.

The deeper he went, the harder the ground became. Paul began clawing at the earth like an animal, flinging loose dirt onto his lap and into the grass on either side of him. He'd gone deep enough now that the soil was damp and compact, cold against his battered fingers. He could feel specks of it hit against his face like sparks of ice, and somehow he'd ended up with some in his mouth, grinding between his teeth.

Still, he dug, reminding himself what was at stake. He wouldn't stop until he absolutely had to. If his dad found the journal, everything would be over. Never mind Paul's blatantly queer writings—what would Jim do with that kind of power?  

Paul's hands went still.

 _He'd bring mum back_.

Christ, why didn't Paul think of that? Could that have been the reason he found it next to her grave in the first place? He had to be a bad person, a bad _son_ , for not bringing her back as soon as he realized the journal's power.

He sat there, shivering in the dark, dirt and mud streaked up to his elbows, the journal resting innocently in the grass.  Could it even do something like cure cancer?  That wasn't like preventing a bar fight, as he had done with John. Something had gone wrong inside her—no matter how far back he went, there was nothing he could do to change that.

He wouldn't be able to stand bringing her back if he wasn't certain the journal could make her stay. 

The dirt seemed to get heavier after that, each fistful Paul flung from the hole seemed to take all his effort, the little roots and twigs that had once snapped so easily now seemed to grab at it him. Every handful felt like a betrayal, but what could he do? Was it really worth going back to life as a thirteen year old if he was only going to end up hurt again? That would also mean going back to a time before he'd found the journal, and what if, this time, he didn't find it again?

Tears were streaking silently down Paul's face, making clean paths through the dirt on his cheeks, but Paul could only dig.

The sun was beginning to paint the sky with the first hints of morning color, and finally, Paul sat back, surveying the hole. It would have to do—if he spent any longer, the neighbors would start waking up and discover him.

With hands shaking from fatigue and overuse, Paul scooped up the journal, running his bloody, mud-caked fingers over the cover one last time. It was like an old friend, a source of comfort that had always been there when he needed it. He could always forget about this, take the journal back inside and keep it—why shouldn't he? Wouldn't it be nice to have in case of an emergency?

Paul squeezed his eyes closed and, with a shuddering breath, he forced his hands open, letting the journal tumble into the hole. This was the right thing to do, he could feel it. But it was still a physical pain to open his eyes and see the journal laying there, abandoned, and Paul gazed at it for a long time before he allowed himself to drop the first handful of dirt over its cover. After that, he worked quickly, filling the hole and packing it down, doing his best to arrange the grass and surrounding foliage until the spot appeared undisturbed.

He staggered to his feet, head swimming, every muscle in his body quaking with the need to rest. He didn't spare the spot another look—he stumbled away, leaving the journal behind forever.

***

John showed up three days later to practice chords.

Though Paul had been waiting for this all day, a sudden terror almost kept him from letting John in at all. No matter what happened now, Paul wouldn't be able to change it. John might pretend nothing had happened; he might decide he hated Paul, that it was all a mistake. Maybe Paul should have called him, maybe he should have talked to him after yesterday's band practice. He hadn't even made it a week without the journal, and he was already second guessing every decision he made.

When Paul opened the door, John's expression was carefully blank. "McCartney," he said in greeting, and Paul's heart dropped. It wasn't like he couldn't just dig the journal up again; he knew exactly where he'd buried it. The ground would still be soft, too.

"Johnny," he replied, soft, and the tiniest of smiles twinkled in John's eyes. "Come in."

John didn't speak again until the door had been closed behind him. He took a cautious look around, his gaze lingering over Paul's shoulder. "Are we alone?"

"Yes," Paul responded. He'd barely gotten the word out before John leaned in and kissed him. It was quick, and John nearly missed Paul's mouth entirely, landing wetly on the corner of his lips.

John went pink. "Sorry, it's just—I've been wanting to do that for days."

Paul's heart swelled. John was so beautiful, so shy and perfect. It was so surreal to see him like this—as tough as could be in his leather jacket and drainies, his hair combed and styled to perfection, standing large and intimidating in the threshold of Paul's home, blushing like a schoolboy. Paul had forever to get used to it, because John was his now.  

It was a miracle. A dream.

Paul reached for him, taking John's guitar and setting it aside. "Then do it properly before Mike gets home."

John drew in a breath, and when he cupped Paul's face in his callused hands, Paul could feel him trembling. He offered John a smile, and that was all John needed to close the distance between them, his mouth soft and hot against Paul's, their breaths mingling. Paul's fingers sought out John's belt loops, curling into them just for something to hold onto. He didn't realize they were moving until his back collided with the wall, and they chuckled into the kiss.

"Jesus," John marveled when they parted. "This is really happening."

"Did you think I'd change my mind?" Paul slid his fingers through John's hair, loosening the carefully placed Elvis swoop, and John had the presence of mind to grunt disapprovingly.

"Watch it, you," he chided, and Paul laughed. John's eyes cut away nervously. "I thought maybe—I dunno, that I was remembering it wrong, and it was just a friendly kiss and—"

"A _friendly_ _kiss_ —no, you daft, daft lad." Paul pressed his mouth against John's again, this time letting his tongue slide along John's lower lip. "Does that feel friendly to you, Johnny?"

John shook his head minutely before pursuing Paul's tongue, their lips parting together for the first time. There was one brief, nearly imperceptible moment of hesitation before John licked his way into Paul's mouth, angling his head for better access, pushing up against him. Paul groaned into it, hand on the back of John's head pulling him closer, their tongues sliding together in a way that made fire course through Paul's veins.

"Ah," he sighed when they parted for breath. "Baby."

John laughed softly, his cheeks pink and hair mussed from Paul's fingers. " _Baby_?" he repeated.

It felt as though they'd always called each other that platonically, and it took Paul a moment to realize that John's confusion meant that wasn't the case. "Oh," he said, fumbling for an explanation. "I just—"

"Never mind." John dropped a kiss against Paul's neck. "I like it."

John was quiet for a moment—the kind of quiet that told Paul he had something on his mind. Paul waited, because John might shy away from whatever it was entirely if he felt pressured. A prickle of nervousness skittered under Paul's skin, but he pushed it away. Whatever it was, it must not be too bad if John was thinking about it while nosing at the skin of his neck.

"Know what else I like?" John said finally.  "How much you've been practicing."

Paul froze. "What do you mean?"

"The way you were with the band yesterday—I've never heard you play like that before." He pulled back enough to look into Paul's eyes. "There was a chord you were using when you were warming up. Show it to me."

Paul's brain was scrambling, trying to remember what he might have been playing.  He hadn't even been aware that John was watching him—they barely even spoke during practice, except to confirm their meeting today. There were countless chords he'd learned between now and 1960—he'd gone out of his way to hold back, letting the strings buzz and messing up on the simplest of songs, but it hadn't been enough. John saw right through him, as always.

"Oh—well," Paul started, fumbling for words. "I dunno, exactly. It could've been something I made up, I don't remember."

John gave him a long, hard look. Paul could see him trying to work this out, wondering if Paul was lying in an attempt to keep the upper hand, but conflicted, upset by the thought. He didn't want to believe Paul would do that to him, and Paul needed to prove that he wouldn't.

"Hey," Paul said softly, laying a hand on John's face. His thumb smoothed away the wrinkle of worry between John's brows, but he didn't get a chance to say another word. The door handle rattled and they launched apart, grabbing for their guitars, too flustered to look casual.

Mike let himself in and he looked between them suspiciously, his eyes lingering on the mess of John's hair. "What're you standing here for?"

John's hands went to his hair self-consciously, smoothing down the sides.

"Nothing," Paul snapped. "We just got in." He grabbed John's wrist and led him to the living room, shouting for Mike not to bother them while they practiced.

They settled into the living room, seated across from each other so they could watch each other's fingers, the tips of their boots barely touching. It was so hard for Paul to keep from reaching across and touching him, lay his hand on John's knee, or feel the edges of his hair that glowed in the sunlight from the window. Paul could imagine it, soft and warm, and he ached.

As if feeling Paul's eyes on him, John glanced up from his slow, methodical tuning. He was so different from the John Paul knew in Hamburg, the one who could tune his guitar in a matter of seconds while walking on stage.

"What're you staring at?"

Paul smiled. "You."

John blinked rapidly as if Paul had slapped him, ducking his head. "Queer," he retorted, but it sounded fond. His eyes landed on Paul's hand, curled loosely around the neck of his guitar. "What happened to you, then?"

While Paul's hands looked much better once the dirt had been washed away, all the digging he'd done had left him with a series of bruises and shallow cuts around his knuckles, his nails chipped and battered. It wasn't nearly as obvious as it had been a few nights ago, but John noticed everything. He curled his fingers to hide them from John's view. "It's nothing."

John was already putting on his glasses. He leaned forward, plucking Paul's hand from the guitar, causing the strings to hum softly. His hands were warm, cradling Paul's as if it was made of glass.

"Did you get in a fight?" John asked. "Who was it? I'll cripple 'em."

"No, no," Paul said quickly. "Nothing like that. I was just helping dad with some gardening."

John stared at him. "Gardening? You really are a bloody queer." His eyes cut to the side, checking the doorway, then he brought Paul's hand to his lips. "Be more careful, anyway."

He squeezed Paul's hand gently before letting it go, adjusting his guitar in his lap. "That chord, then?"

It took Paul a moment to catch up with him, his hand tingling pleasantly from the feeling of John's mouth there, the ghost of his breath. Paul had been working up to this for years, but John was still better at it than him. As always.

"Right," he breathed, shaky. It struck him suddenly how perfect this was—the two of them together, no budding success or pressing schedules to separate them, just here, alone in Paul's living room, the sun warming them as the stole shy looks at each other. This is how it was always supposed to be.

Paul chose a chord at random from the selection he'd learned since Hamburg, leaning forward to let John see his fingers. "I think this is the one," Paul told him. It probably wasn't, but it was one John should be able to handle at his current skill level.

He was just showing John which strings to strum when the telephone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

Paul slammed his hand against the body of his guitar, the sound echoing hollowly. "Mike!" he yelled. "Answer the bloody telephone!"

He was answered with an indistinct muttering, followed by Mike's footsteps stomping along the floor, until the ringing finally stopped.

"Anyway—" he turned his attention back to John, smiling when their eyes met. John returned the smile, soft and affectionate, and mirrored the position of Paul's fingers on the frets of his own guitar. "Right, just like that," Paul told him. "This is D7, try it."

John strummed his guitar, carefully avoiding the last two strings as Paul had instructed, and flinched when it came out muted and dull.

Paul laughed, leaning in close to adjust John's fingers. Ordinarily, he would have just told John how to move his fingers, but it was a good excuse to touch. "It's all right, you just have to—" 

"John?" That was Mike, standing pale and terrified in the doorway. Paul's heart seemed to come to a complete stop, seizing around his throat like a fist. "It's—er—it's for you."

John blinked at him, innocent and confused, his hand sliding from Paul's. "Oh," he said, tucking his glasses in his pocket. "Okay then."

He shot Paul a puzzled smile on his way out of the room, and Paul realized this was the last time he'd ever see him happy. He wanted to run to John, stop him from leaving the room, as if that would somehow change what had already happened:

Julia was dead.

*** 

Though Paul was physically present at the funeral this time, seated stiff and resolute next to John, his mind was far away. Hadn't he done enough? Hadn't changing his and John's relationship had a large enough effect on everyone else? John being out of the house should have done something to keep Julia off that specific street, at that specific moment—but it hadn't.

In the days following her death, there had been several moments where Paul had decided he was wrong about the journal, that he needed to dig it up and fix this, but something held him back. He wouldn't allow himself to think about it too deeply, because the conclusion he came to was too sickening to acknowledge: part of their bond was the shared loss of their mothers. If John still had Julia, maybe he and Paul wouldn't be as close.

But that wasn't the reason, it _couldn't_ be, because when Paul had buried the journal he hadn't even considered that Julia might die again. All he'd wanted was to face life and all of its surprises, and this happened to be one of them, for better or worse.

Looking after John was all that mattered now, and Paul hadn't left his side since they'd gotten the news. John's first instinct had been to run off, get into trouble, but Paul had accompanied him back to Mimi's house, and he waited quietly in the next room while the John and Mimi cried together. It would be better this time. He already had John on the right track.

When the ceremony was over, Paul lingered nearby as people came by to shake John's hand, offering their meaningless condolences. John was pale, lost; he seemed too small for the suit he wore, like a young boy playing dress up in his father's clothes. He didn't seem to know what to do, and with this, Paul couldn't even help him. His memories of his own mother's funeral were vague and fleeting—that was why he'd avoided Julia's funeral the first time. He didn't want to be reminded.

He stared down at his feet as he waited for the crowd to clear, waiting for the chance to get John away from all of this. Being smothered by strangers was the last thing John needed.

"I'm so sorry, John." That voice was too familiar and Paul's head snapped up. There was a boy with his arms wrapped around John's neck, holding him close, though John's arms remained stiff at his sides. "Is there anything you need?"

When the boy pulled away, Paul's worst fears were confirmed. Younger than Paul remembered, but so nauseatingly familiar: Stuart.

Paul's hands clenched into fists; he wanted to remind himself what Stuart looked like with his face bruised and bloody. The memory of cartilage and teeth crunching under his fists was still so vivid. A tremor of adrenaline and hatred swirled in Paul's chest.

John had told him once that Stuart had come to the funeral, though he'd been "merely an acquaintance." It was only now, seeing Stuart in person, that Paul remembered those words. 

John shook his head stiffly in response to Stuart's question. Paul couldn't see John's face from his angle, but he could see Stuart's sickening, affectionate smile. It looked so fake, his lips tight and eyes empty. What did he want? He had no reason to be here. His sympathy was meaningless—it was clear to Paul that all Stuart really wanted was to lure John in, trick him into caring.

Stuart took John's hand and placed a piece of paper in it, folding John's fingers around it. "Call me if you change your mind, all right? Any time at all."

It was as if Paul had been set on fire. This was it. This was the moment that changed John and Stu's relationship, the seed that grew into John inexplicably falling for him. In another lifetime, John would have called that number, and Paul's entire world would change. That wouldn't happen this time, Paul knew, because he was the one John really wanted. Stuart had been nothing more than a shoddy substitute.

Still, Paul hooked an arm around John's shoulders and led him from the church with more force than necessary. John followed along without protest, blank and faraway, and Paul took the opportunity to slide Stuart's number from John's pocket and flick it into the mud.

*** 

Getting into bed with John was becoming a routine, though Paul wished it could be under better circumstances. He'd spent the night at John's house every night since Julia's passing, keeping John occupied, keeping him safe. He could almost imagine they lived together, if John didn't go through his days as if half asleep. That, however, wasn't surprising, as John hardly slept at night.

John's back was turned when Paul slid in beside him, didn't move as Paul slipped an arm around his waist. He could almost be asleep, warm and still in Paul's arms, but Paul could feel the subtle vibrating starting somewhere just beneath where his fingertips rested on John's skin. It would soon turn into muffled sobs, which would turn into tears, and then John would finally roll over and bury his face in Paul's chest. It had been that way for three nights in a row, and tonight would be no different.

"You're all right," Paul told him, though John was still in the fake sleep phase. "You were good today. All those people—I don't know how you managed."

John sighed, his chest swelling under Paul's hand. "How did you manage?"

It took Paul a moment to realize John wasn't referring to the funeral. Paul rested his head between John's shoulder blades. "I don't know," he admitted, and John seemed to collapse in on himself, shrinking in Paul's arms. Paul tightened his hold. "But it's possible. Look at me—I'm still here, aren't I?"

For a moment, the only response was silence. Paul waited, pressing his nose against the warm back of John's neck, nuzzling against his hair. It was quiet enough that Paul wondered if John had fallen asleep after all—he wouldn't mind, God knew John needed the rest. Right when Paul finally started to let his eyes drift closed, he felt John's fingers brush against his own.

"Paul?" he asked, soft.

"Hm?"

"Does it ever stop hurting?"

Paul flinched, the scar on his own heart rubbed raw. "No," he admitted. "But you get used to it. You start to forget it hurts at all."

John made a low sound, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. "I can't live like that."

"You will," Paul told him. "I'll help you. I'm not going to let you deal with this alone."

John shifted, rolling over to face him. Their noses were a mere breath apart on the pillow they shared. All Paul wanted to do was lean in and kiss him, but he didn't think it would help. Mimi never peeked into his room in the middle of the night, but that didn't keep John from worrying.  

"I wish I couldn't feel," John said finally, his voice cracking. It was too dark to know for sure, but Paul was almost certain the tears had started to fall.

Paul hushed him, his hands moving to smooth back John's hair, petting down his neck. He had nothing to say. It wasn't going to be okay. Nothing was ever going to be okay again, and Paul didn't have the heart to lie to him. He knew exactly what John was feeling, and he knew better than anyone that nothing could make it better.

"I'm sorry," Paul whispered against his forehead. _Sorry for burying the journal. Sorry for not jotting down a line that ensured her safety. Sorry for refusing to change this._ "I'm sorry, Johnny, I'm so sorry."

The pillow had gone damp beneath Paul's cheek, and it took him a moment to realize it was his own tears—not John's.

Then, in an instant, John was gone from Paul's arms. Paul could see his silhouette in the darkness, sitting up sharply. "We could get out of here," John said, his voice thick. "We could forget all of this."

A glimmer of memory skirted along the edges of Paul's mind. When they'd been planning their record, hadn't John said something about Paris? Paul sat up beside him. "You mean—run away?"

John sniffed, wiping his nose with his arm. "No, I just—I want to get fucking pissed. Come with me."

Paul's heart dropped, terror prickling in his chest. "John, no."

"Why not?" John shot back, his mood taking a turn toward anger. It was easier for him to be angry than to cry, Paul knew, but that didn't stop his tone from stinging. "I've been cooped up here since she died! I need to go out, and not to a bloody funeral. I want one fucking drink, don't you understand?"

The last bit came out a little desperate, and Paul wanted to show him that he did understand, of course he did. But he knew John wouldn't stop after one drink, and more importantly, Paul knew the consequences of John going out in his current state. If it hadn't been for Julia dying the exact same way she had the first time, Paul might have given in. He might have thought that just his presence would be enough to stop John from trying to start fights.

The past, it seemed, was difficult to change if Paul's words weren't specific enough. John wouldn't be safe until tomorrow night, after they made it past the time of his death.  Until then, Paul couldn't let him out of his sight.

"It won't help," Paul told him. "You'll forget about it tonight, but you'll remember tomorrow. What's the point?"

John's shoulders slumped. "I need—I need _something_."

Paul leaned in, letting their arms touch. His hand found John's in the dark. "Why don't we take a walk? Get some fresh air?"

He felt John nod and Paul kissed his fingers. "I'll get our shoes."

***

The night was cool and dark. Clouds were rolling gently overhead, blocking out the stars, and Paul could feel the damp promise of rain in the air. It reminded him of another night, a million nights ago, the last time he'd seen John before he'd died. It had been raining. John was alone, abandoned, soaked through his clothes, kicked out of the pub he would soon die in front of. 

Paul reached for John's hand, squeezing it to soothe his own jumbled nerves. John only allowed this for a second before pulling away gently. They could be the last two people in the world, and John would still be afraid of getting caught.

"Do you know how important you are to me?" Paul asked suddenly. He was surprised by his own words—he hadn't even thought about taking this opportunity to talk about anything as personal as _feelings_ , especially ones so irrelevant to John's loss, but it was too late to take it back.

Still, it was the first thing he'd said in days that seemed to capture John's full attention. He stared at Paul with wide, glassy eyes. "What?" he asked, a tremor of laughter in his voice. He always gave himself a way play his feelings off as a joke, just in case Paul was tricking him.

"I dunno, just—" Paul shrugged. He didn't even have to think before the words started tumbling out. "It's just, from the moment I first met you, I wanted to be your friend. I wanted to be closer to you than anyone had ever been. I didn't know anything about you, but you were the coolest person I'd ever seen."

They'd stopped walking, Paul noticed belatedly, and John was staring at the ground. Paul could hear John breathing hard, his hands visibly shaking. He didn't say anything, but that didn't matter. Paul couldn't stop.

"I wanted to make a band with you, the biggest band in the world. I loved Julia, because she was the one who suggested I teach you chords, and God, John, that changed everything. She changed everything."

John's breath hitched. He met Paul's eyes for the first time, his face soft with awe. "She—she did," John admitted, breathless.

"Do you remember—" Paul lowered his voice "—the first night you and I stayed at hers?" Paul couldn't believe he remembered himself; it had been so long ago for him, a memory he hadn't thought to revisit in a long time. "We wore little Julia's clothes, you asked me if I was queer."

"I remember," John said softly.

"You seemed upset when I said I wasn't. But then you said you weren't either, and I was terrified by how much I wanted you to be."

John tilted his head up, angrily blinking back tears. "Why are you telling me this?"

Truthfully, Paul didn't know. It wasn't a good time for a discussion like this, but at the same time, maybe John needed to hear it.

"I want to be with you," Paul told him. "Exclusive-like, y'know? Like a girlfriend, but—"

John laughed feebly. "Boyfriend," he supplied.

"Yeah." Paul couldn't help but laugh a little too, struck by how silly it sounded. Boys couldn't have boyfriends, but here they were. "I'm sorry, Johnny, I don't know where that came from."

John, however, just looked at him, his eyes searching Paul's face as if seeing him for the first time. Somehow they had drifted closer, and Paul's heart was racing—no one would see them if they kissed, but _God_ , John would hate him for it. He didn't even know how John felt about being with him exclusively, if that was even a possibility.

"I can't," John said finally, "I can't leave Cyn. That would look—I can't. But if I could somehow, I dunno, have both you, that would be…" He shook his head. "Don't make me decide, Paul, not right now."

"I never meant for you to leave Cyn," Paul said, shaking with nerves. He couldn't have blown this already. "Having both of us is fine. Both of us _make sense_. One girlfriend, one boyfriend. It's different, isn't it?"

"Yeah," John answered. "Yeah, I s'pose it is."

"I didn't mean to do this, John. I just wanted you to know I cared, I guess, I don't know what I was thinking."

John shook his head. "We can—we can be boyfriends. If you want. Christ, that's stupid." He was actually smiling, soft and real. Then he was leaning in, and Paul's heart caught, but John only pressed his cheek against Paul's, a warm, delicate press of skin.

Somehow, it still felt like a kiss. 

Paul moved closer until their chests were together, looping his arms around John's shoulders. He could feel John's heart beating in time with his own, the stubble on John's cheek catching against Paul's. Then, slowly, John's arms slid around Paul's waist, holding on tight.

They stayed like that for a long time.

*** 

Paul woke up with a start the following afternoon. He was just aware enough to see John's sleeping form beside him before he bolted from the bed, barely making it to the toilet before he puked.

This was the day. July 20th, 1958.

This was the day John was supposed to die.

But not this time, Paul told himself, _not this time_. John was fine. No matter how badly Paul regretted the timing of last night's conversation, it seemed to make John happy. That was a good thing. As long as Paul could keep him happy, John had no reason to go out and get himself into trouble.

Still, the anxiety made Paul throw up everything in his stomach and then some, clutching the toilet and dry heaving.

"Paul?" John's voice was soft, gentle.

It felt, bizarrely, that he'd gone back in time again. He'd just thrown up from the realization that he wrote a queer love song, and John came to find him. Paul flushed the toilet and leaned back against the wall, offering John a small smile.

"We should stop meeting like this," he said.

John returned the smile, but it didn't quite meet his eyes. For as happy as he'd seemed last night, he had darkened bags under his eyes, and his face was pale, lifeless. Maybe the night had just concealed it, and he hadn't been happy after all. The thought made Paul's chest ache.

"Are you all right?" John asked. He wrapped his arms around himself, and Paul hated how alone he looked.

"I'm fine, come sit with me."

Paul didn't trust himself to make it back to bed; his throat was tight, his stomach churning emptily in warning. Really, Paul thought, they _should_ stop meeting up in bathrooms, but—well. There was a strange comfort to it, especially when John closed the door and locked it behind him. It was their own private little world, and it was just as abnormal as they were.

John wiped the sweat from Paul's forehead with the back of his hand, pushing Paul's hair back with his fingers. Paul leaned into the touch, his aching head soothed by John's hands.

"You get sick too much," John told him.

Paul only shrugged, resting his head on John's shoulder. They sat there for a moment, silent, leaning against each other. Paul hoped, somewhat desperately, that his presence was as comforting to John as John's was to him. It had been that way since they met; Paul hadn't known anything about John, but when John leaned over him at the piano, his beery breath on Paul's face, Paul had felt complete. Like he was home.

Paul felt that same sense of belonging now, intensified when John's arm hooked around his waist, pulling him in closer. John's breath was gusting against his temple, hot and beery, and Paul could feel himself relaxing, sleep slowly dragging him down.

Then realization struck, and his eyes popped open.

"John," he said slowly, taking a moment to inhale—just to be sure. "Have you—have you been drinking?"

John wrenched away, releasing his grip on Paul, leaving him cold. "It's none of your business, is it?"

Paul opened his mouth to retort, then snapped it closed, faltering. He didn't want to argue with John, but this was dangerous—more dangerous than John knew. "You didn't sneak out again, did you? Last night? Without me?"

"No," John grumbled.

"Then where did you—"

"You think we don't keep beer in the house? Honestly, Paul."

Well, no, Paul didn't think Mimi was the type of person to keep it around. But as long as John wasn't sneaking off to pubs in the middle of the night, it didn't matter. Paul sighed. "All right. I'm sorry. I just worry about you."

"Don't bother," John spat. "Why're you still here anyway?" 

Paul frowned. "You really don't know?"

"Right. That shite about how important I am to you."

Paul squeezed his eyes closed. John was just upset; he hardly believed anyone cared about him when he was in a good mood. This shouldn't be a surprise.

"I meant it, y'know," Paul told him, keeping his voice gentle. "I would never leave you like this. I don't care if you want to sit here all day, I'll stay with you. And I'll laugh with you when Mimi breaks down the door because she's been holding her piss all day, waiting for us to come out."

That earned him a small laugh, and Paul kissed John's hair. It was getting stringy, in need of a good washing.

"Know what might help?" Paul asked. "Lunch, then a nice, long bath."

A ghost of a smile played at John's lips. "Are you telling me I stink, then?"

"Mm, something dreadful," Paul agreed, grinning, and John's smile broadened.

He let Paul help him up and guide him to the kitchen, where Paul got him settled in at the table.

"Dining alone this evening, sir?" Paul asked, affecting a snobbish accident. He held an imaginary notepad and pen in his hands.

"Aye," John answered. "My boyfriend left me to become a waiter, can you imagine?"

Warmth spread from Paul's chest to his limbs, making him bite his lip and cast his eyes away. John  called Paul his boyfriend so easily, so shamelessly—Paul had never felt more important, like the center of the universe.

"Well, he's a bloody fool," Paul said, trying his best to continue the charade, though the tremor in his voice made him lose the accent. "You're perfect."

When John looked away, his face pink, Paul realized he'd seen this before. John, sat in front of this very window, on this very day, half lit by the sun. This had been the day that turned everything around, gave them a reason to laugh together, to move forward. Paul needed to make sure that happened again.

He fixed them each a sandwich, as he'd done last time, and dug around the cupboards until he found a couple of beers. He brought them to the table as a peace offering, sitting down across from John.

"I was thinking we could go out later," Paul said, watching as John cracked open a beer.

He downed half of it before responding, "Where?"

"I dunno, anywhere. Last night seemed to do you some good."

John shrugged. "We can if you want."

Paul tried to remember what they did last time. It seemed like they walked for hours, then they'd stopped for chips.

John reached across the table and grabbed for the second beer; Paul had brought it for himself, but he didn't have the heart to stop him. He didn't know how much John'd had last night, after Paul fell asleep, but he didn't seem too bad. At least he wasn't violent, or putting himself in danger. Who was Paul to deny him a shred of comfort? 

"Bring some more of those," John told him, when he polished off the second beer.

Paul offered him a pitying smile. "Maybe later. Why don't you go ahead and run a bath? I'll clean this up and we can go out."

It took some convincing, but John finally made his way toward the bathroom. Paul waited until he heard the door close and the water start running before he started cleaning up the remains of their lunch. He threw out the bottles and the remaining crusts from their sandwiches, washing off the plates in the sink. Humming to himself, he started wiping the remaining crumbs off the table.

It would almost be a date, Paul realized. He still couldn't believe what he'd said last night; he didn't know what made it come to mind, or why he felt the sudden need to put a name on their relationship. But since it hadn't backfired, it gave everything they did new importance, new meaning. 

He hoped it felt that way to John, too.

And oh, now he remembered what happened last time they took this walk together—it was one of his favorite memories, one that no longer existed. His father's friend Frank had approached them, asked them each about their mothers, and he and John had run him off together, caused the man crippling embarrassment. They had to recreate that. To be able to laugh about something like this—no one else could understand. They needed that. It had to have forged some kind of bond between them.

If they timed it just right, Frank should show up again. Just like he had before.

Paul couldn't wait to hear John laugh like that again.

The thought of John made Paul hesitate, frowning. The bath water was still running. It should be more than full enough by now—what was he doing?

Paul made his way to the bathroom, trying to talk himself out of the small prickle of fear that seized him. John had probably just turned the water back on to rinse off his hair, and Paul had been so busy cleaning that he hadn't noticed when John cut the water off originally. There were dozens of perfectly logical explanations, but the world seemed to take on a subtle wrongness—like all the furniture had been shifted an inch to the left. Barely noticeable, but off balance all the same.

He knocked on the door. "John?" he called, doing his best to keep the worry out of his voice.

No answer.

" _John?_ "

Maybe he climbed out the window, snuck off to a pub after all.

But why would he leave the water running?

"John!" Paul tried the door, but it didn't budge. Locked. "John, answer me!" 

The sound of the tap running was joined by a strange splattering sound, like rain on a window. The tub was overflowing.

Paul threw his weight against the door. "John!"

He slammed his body against the door again and again, he could feel it shift and bend, about to give way—then there was a loud, definite crack and pain seared through Paul's shoulder. He stumbled back, clutching his arm, and water began to seep beneath the door. 

" _John_ ," he moaned, his voice unfamiliar to his own ears. This couldn't be happening. Not again. Not when Paul had done everything he could to prevent it.

Not when he'd finally turned his back on the journal for good.

It was that thought that grabbed him, made him kick the heel of his boot into the door with enough force to dent into the wood—then again, _again_ , a fracture slowly forming. Splinters flew back into his face with each impact, nicking his cheeks, but Paul hardly felt it. He shoved his hand through the hole as soon as he could see light from the other side, jagged edges of wood slicing his knuckles, and he grappled for the lock. 

His hand was sweaty, shaking, and he fumbled for a moment before the lock slid free, and then Paul was shoving the door open with enough force to nearly send him toppling face first into the water.

What he saw next was so surreal, so horrible and impossible, that it felt like a dream.

A nightmare.

Paul rushed to the tub where John lay, facedown. When Paul grabbed his arm, it seemed to radiate a chill that wasn't natural, and he yanked John out of the bath and onto the floor. His eyes were half-open, unseeing, and there was a horrible, broken crying coming from somewhere far away.

" _Please_ ," Paul managed, grabbing for John's face, cradling it in his hands. John's head lolled from side to side, limp as a ragdoll. "Please, please—it's okay—just look at me."

How had this happened? Not on purpose, it couldn't have been on purpose—John wouldn't do that to him, he _couldn't_.

"Please!" Paul begged, and he pushed at John's cold, clammy chest, trying to force him to take a breath. Water continued to splatter around them, splashing with each compression.

He had to have just fallen asleep. Maybe he'd drank more than Paul thought last night, and he just—

Paul couldn't think about it anymore. Because it wasn't real.

He wouldn't let this be real.

*** 

Paul's fingers cut through the dirt like claws, shoving it aside in careless handfuls. This time, covering his tracks didn't matter. It didn't matter who saw him. Nothing mattered except getting his hands on the journal.

He could barely see through the tears that clouded his vision, his breathing wrecked and ragged—he sounded like a wounded animal, groaning and weeping and screaming.

The soil was still loose, lifting away quick and easy, turning into mud that caked onto his soaked trousers. Paul was shivering from the cold, the trauma—he couldn't blink away the vision of John's pale, empty face, his dull eyes. Last time, all Paul had to torment him was his own imagination; what he thought John must have looked like after he fell. Now it was real, burning in his brain, and Paul wanted to claw his own head open and rip the image out.

He dug down deeper, deeper, and _where the fuck was it?_

His heart was pounding, his vision blurring and dancing, prickles of light around the edges—he couldn't make himself breathe, not in a way that wasn't a gasping shriek.

The ground in the hole turned hard, compact—this had to be the bottom, but the journal wasn't there.

 _The journal wasn't there_.

But it had to be, _it had to be_ , and Paul dug deeper, screaming, because who could have taken it? Who could have known?

This had to be the wrong spot. He must have remembered wrong. Paul shoved himself to his feet and staggered to the shed, throwing open the door and grabbing one of his father's shovels.

He dug wildly, at random, flinging dirt and rocks and his father's precious plants, and the garden was all overturned, ragged dirt when Mike appeared.

"Shit, Paul, what've you done?"

He stood still on the street, horrified. Realization struck hard enough to make Paul stagger under the weight of it—Mike had seen him that night. He may have gone inside when Paul told him to, but he never let things go that easily. He would have been nosy, he would have wondered which direction Paul was going.

 _He must have watched from the window_.

Paul threw the shovel at him and Mike barely stumbled out of the way, his eyes wide in terror.

" _Where is it?_ " Paul shouted, his voice shrill and broken. He staggered to his brother, grabbing onto his shirt with bloody hands and yanking him close. " _Where the fuck is it?_ "

"What?" Mike asked, smiling feebly. "Your little queer book? I—"

There had been many, many times in his life when Paul had wanted to hit Mike, had imagined it in vivid detail, but this was the first time—without a second thought—that Paul's fist connected directly under Mike's chin, making his mouth slam closed and his head jerk back—just as limp as John's had been. Paul released him, grabbing at his own hair, pulling, pulling, _screaming_.

Mike, who had fallen, stared up at him dazedly, blood trickling from his mouth. "Paul—"

" _Where is it?_ "

"It—it's in my room." Mike's words took on a whistling lisp. Maybe he'd broken a tooth, or lost one, or bit his tongue; Paul didn't care at all. None of this was permanent.

Paul was on his way to Mike's room before Mike had even gotten off the ground, but it wasn't long before he could hear Mike stumbling along behind him.

"Dad's going to be so fucking pissed at you," Mike slurred. "So fucking pissed, I'm going to tell him about the book, too, _fuck you_."

It took all Paul had to keep from turning around and shoving him down the stairs. Perhaps the only thing that stopped him was the journal, knowing he got closer and closer to it with each step he took. He didn't have time to waste on Mike— _fucking Mike_. Why couldn't he leave Paul's things alone? Why did he have to fuck up everything?

When they got to Mike's room, Mike stopped in the doorway, arms crossed, defiant.

"Where the fuck is it, Michael?" Paul spat.

"You could at least say please. Or apologize, that would be—"

Paul reached out, grabbing the closest object to him, throwing it—it shattered against the wall, and the way Mike screamed, the way his eyes went glassy—Paul knew it had been his beloved camera.

It didn't matter.

" _Where is it?_ "

Mike only hesitated a second longer, his mouth hanging open in disbelief, before he went to his bed. His eyes never left Paul's as he reached a hand under the mattress, and there was a look on his face Paul had never seen before: Betrayal. _Hatred_.

 _It didn't fucking matter_.

There was only one thing Mike said that caught Paul's attention, that broke him out of his daze for the briefest of moments. As he tossed the journal to Paul, Mike snarled, "I wrote an ending to your stupid little love story."

Paul's heart seemed to stop, his entire body going numb. The journal itself nearly slipped from his hands. "What?"

Mike went on, "I hope it's the last bit of happiness you ever get. It's more than you deserve."  

Paul threw open the journal, slapping the early pages out of the way, until he recognized Mike's untidy scrawl:

> _And then Paulie confessed all his disgusting queer feelings to John and they became stupid queer boyfriends_
> 
> _The end_

The end.

 _The end_.

It couldn't be, it couldn't work like that—but it was the only thing that made sense.

"This is your fault!" Paul yelled. "This is your fucking fault, _you killed him!_ "

Mike's widened, just slightly. "What?"

But Paul didn't have time to explain. He could hear Mike calling after him as he left, locking himself away in his room.

Mike continued to call for him, to bang on the door. "Killed who? Paul, who died? Is John okay?"

As Paul's hand moved rapidly across the page, word after word tumbling out, Mike's voice seemed to fade away.

John would be okay. He would always be okay.

Paul would make sure of that.

 


End file.
